


Wings

by theshizniiit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Hurt Sam Wilson, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Origin Story, Original Trans Character - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam-Centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Female Character, just so you know, the mcu timeline is a bit fucked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 34,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2476178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshizniiit/pseuds/theshizniiit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sam knows firsthand that wings come with crushing responsibility that have stomped lesser men to dust.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Sam Wilson, however, is one of the best men there is.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>That's probably why these wings feel so heavy on his back.</em>
</p><p>A story of loss and sadness. Bullets and fear, and how Sam Wilson gained his wings despite it all.</p><p>A Falcon prequel fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_He hears voices._

_In his few stints with losing consciousness, Sam realizes that sound always comes back first._

_The voices are frantic and muted, fuzzy at the edges but somehow sharp._

_His head aches._

_And he goes back under._

 

~

 

_Consciousness claws at him, the murky blackness of sleep still luring him in before it breaks away like cloth ripping from his eyes._

_He wakes up to beeping._

_He still doesn't open his eyes, the lure of sleep pulling him back into a comforting embrace, dark, warm and welcoming._

_He has the vague sticky feeling like he's running from something._

_He sleeps._

 

~

 

_When he opens his eyes--finally--the first thing he sees is a ceiling. It's white with speckles, separated into tiles and the tiles held in place by pale, thin metal rods._

_He studies the ceiling for a long time. He memorizes every speckle, estimates how long each tile is and the exact color of off white it happens to be._

_The beeping continues until he hears a steady clacking, but the murky water has been pulling at him for a while now._

_So he figures it's time to go back under._

 

~

 

"Mr. Wilson? Are you listening to me?"

He hadn't been listening. At all.

Sam sits upright in bed, facing the woman sitting in the chair before him. His eyes aren't on her, though. He stares at the IV bag hoisted on the pole next to his bed, counting the steady _drip drip drips_ into the line plugged in his arm. He knows she's there, he does. But she's background noise. 

Everything has seemed like background noise since he woke up. The sounds and colors fuzzy and dull. He doesn't have the strength to be frustrated or concerned by it. He can't seem to muster much of anything.

He can't look her in the eye, something about it feels so damn _frightening_ and it makes his lungs seize and his breath quicken. 

He's completely memorized the room. He's been there long enough, and the fact that he couldn't seem to get his mind to quiet down every since he woke up seems to drive him to compulsively count and observe everything he can.

"You need to focus Mr. Wilson-"

_There were three plastic chairs, a sterile white. Two one one side of his bed, one on the other side._

"-your psych eval came out less than stellar-"

_The walls are a pale white, the floor the color of eggshells._

"-the nurses are telling me you won't eat, is that true?"

_The bed had silver railings and pale blue blankets. The blankets itched._

"Sam?"

_The machines never stopped beeping. They are just big foreign things next to his bed. He doesn't like them and he can't turn them off. He counts the beeps._

"I'm sorry about your friend, Mr. Wilson."

Sam eyes focus suddenly--sharp color flooding his vision--and his neck, as sore as it is--drags his head to look at the woman in front of him. He takes in her curls and her light brown skin. Her perfume is overpowering, suddenly. His chest constricts and he struggles to swallow but his tongue feels thick in his mouth and a faint buzzing under his skin. His fingers twitch and _he wants to scratch and scratch and scratch and scratch until he can breathe-_

No one has mentioned Riley since it happened.

Sam shifts, his skin feeling like it doesn't fit, and turns away from the woman, laying down on the bed. 

The blanket still itches.

"Mr. Wilson?"

He turns his back to her, his body heavy and unwilling to listen to his brain.

_He feels dead._

"Sam?"

He wrangles his uncooperative body into a ball, dragging his legs up to meet his chest and pulling heavy arms to draw the blanket up around him, the movement draining every ounce of energy he'd been saving up.

Maybe he _is_ dead.

Sam has the dull thought that it wouldn't be so bad.

"I'll come back tomorrow."

The blanket smells like bleach.

He hears her heels clack to the door and then echo down the hallway. The nurse closes his room door with a faint _'click'_.

Sam counts the blemishes on the wall until that murky water takes him back under.

 

~

 

The doctor will mark this down as the first time Sam Wilson has responded to anything or anyone in two months.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know whats wrong with him.
> 
> Ever since he came back everything has just been so draining he doesn't know how to function anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Life had me a bit busy...

He's so _tired_.

Damn exhausted, actually.

It strikes him that he hasn't even done much. Just woken up in his room in the hospital, asked a nurse for an aspirin, took said aspirin and then walked to his window before he headed to back under his blankets. The room was too bright. It's always too bright. 

He doesn't know whats wrong with him.

Ever since he came back everything has just been so _draining_ he doesn't know how to function anymore.

He's tried remembering--and he does remember snippets--like Riley burning up before his eyes, the fact that he couldn't reach him in time, the fact that he let him die-

in the end he just balks and goes blank again. Like his mind hits a roadblock and he can't get past it.

To be fair, he hasn't really tried.

He picks at the food and doesn't eat much. He can't keep anything down so he doesn't feel the need to try and his eyelids feel like sandpaper no matter how much he sleeps, his body is sluggish and his mind is still trying to piece together what happened before he went postal. He wants to ask, to get the full story, but he's terrified of the answers and he hasn't spoken much since everything happened. He's not up for conversation.

So when the psychiatrist comes in every day and sits with him, she talks and he stares at her vacantly, bristling at the fact that another person is much _too close_ to him for comfort, and the fact that he has so many questions, but cant seem to articulate any of it.

He's given up.

Or rather, he did for the last two months.

Now he sits across from the woman who has been filling their usual silences with small talk as she usually does and he surprises her. He surprises himself, too.

He asks, "What happened?" in a small voice, hoarse from disuse, picking at the loose thread on his hospital issued pants (he's surprised none of the nurses has caught the loose thread yet--he knows they'll be taken away and replaced with pants with no loose threads. Probably so he doesn't find some way to off himself with it, he thinks darkly.)

Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second and for some reason that makes Sam anxious.

"What do you mean, Mr. Wilson?"

He clears his throat and croaks, "Call me Sam." before he look away, eyeing the wall behind her head. It has 32 small blemishes in it. He has the thought that he's spending way too much time here.

"What happened. Why am I in here?" He rasps.

She sits back in the chair, her shock replaced by her professional air that she carries in and out of the hospital as she smooths out her pencil skirt and looks at him, tilting her head.

Sam watches as one curly hair falls out of her bun and onto her shoulder.

"From what I understand it was a standard mission, one you and your partner were used to." she starts in an even voice, watching him closely for any signs of distress, "There was a hostile variable that was caught a bit too late and your partner was killed. You were then pulled from the mission. Called to retreat."

Her hazel eyes soften in sympathy, "You were in shock. Another soldier had to be sent to retrieve you. I have been told that when you entered the compound you collapsed and passed out. You couldn't be roused."

Sam bristles.

"And so, Sam, you have been here since." she sighed, "Your superiors would not have been so concerned if you hadn't been showing signs of severe depression, disassociation and PTSD upon waking."

Sam looks at his hands.

She leans forward, and looks him in the eye, her face genuine. "I'm very sorry about your friend, Sam. At first we wondered what could have caused this reaction in you but when what was left of his body was recovered, we understood. We couldn't find all of him but...there was enough to ID him. It must have been horrific, seeing him like that."

Sam swallows thickly, "He was in pieces. One minute he was fine, making some stupid joke on the comm and then he was just....in pieces. And falling."

He feels numb and his throat hurts. 

But before the doctor leaves for the day he spies her writing _'functional'_  in her curly script on his progress chart.

He even says goodbye, this time. He smiles and everything.

 

~

 

Two weeks later, he's discharged.

He's 20 pounds lighter, has bags under his eyes and bruises marring his dark brown skin. The discharge documents signed and doctors notes all stamped with the word 'outpatient' tucked in his case folder filled with other things that tell Sam that he's broken and unstable and _pretty much completely and totally fucked_.

He's shaky and not quite happy--but he's _functional_. And that's important.

_'Really important.'_ He tells himself, _'You're fine Sam. Try not to lose your mind, you can do this.'_

 

_~_

 

He's thrilled to be at home in his own bed--

then the nightmares start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update should be soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Sam's backstory in MCU had not been revealed or confirmed to be exactly identical to his comic book counterpart, but it will most likely go along the same vein if they ever reveal it. However in this fic, I have chosen to take some liberties and do some things different.

Sam has been home for exactly two weeks when he decides that he's gonna punch every doctor who told him it would get better.

Right in the face.

Hard.

He's laying in bed, buried under covers and failing to keep his eyes open and he only feels _worse._

He's vaguely aware that he hasn't eaten in a few days, but he has no idea how many and he knows he's missed a few therapy sessions but he just can't seem to move. 

Every breath is a burden and he can barely see straight. He only feels somewhat normal when he's buried under so many blankets he can't find out which way is up. 

He's burning up under them, but even the discomfort is comforting, because at least he's feeling _something_ , which is more than he's felt in _ages._

 _'Pathetic.'_ He thinks as he burrows down further.

The last two weeks had been a struggle. He'd spent them dodging phone calls and telling his mom ' _No, I'm okay. You really don't need to come over, Ma. I'm fine. I'll visit soon.'_ (he hasn't) and assuring his sister _'I'm fine, don't worry about it. You're busy. Kiss the girls for me okay?',_ while dodging phone calls from the doctor and old friends. 

He bothered to make up some excuses the first week.

Now he can't even be bothered to answer the phone.

He's surprised he could even muster the words to ward off his mother's visit. Usually she wouldn't even be so passive _(because when Valentina Wilson wants to do something she does it, whether her kids want her to or not)_ but he assumes that he really must sound fine. He's thankful for that at least, even though he looks like hell in the mirror.

He wants to see his family, he supposes _(because if Sam is honest with himself he has no idea what he wants anymore, other than to sleep forever)_ but he can't summon the energy to do much more than turn over in bed and draw the blankets tighter around his shivering form.

He finds himself wishing he was back at the hospital. At least there he doesn't have the responsibility of speaking to anyone or keeping up with relationships and family bearing down on him like he does at home.

Then there were the nightmares. They were terrible and haunting, a mix of terrifying colors and shapes with no real form but served to terrify him anyway.

They don't stop him from wanting to sleep whatever is left of his life away, though.

 _'This is definitely a low point'_ , Sam thinks.

 _'You're such a useless sad sack, Sam Wilson.'_ He sneers in his head, before he turns over and falls back asleep.

~

He thinks about going to see someone. A doctor he _chooses_ , not the one stuck with him from the hospital. But in the end he figures he won't go anyway, and it would just be a waste of time.

He just needs to get over this.

He doesn't need doctors asking him about his feelings and all of that crap.

He just needs to _cheer the fuck up already._

It's week three of being back and he kicks it off by throwing the blankets off of himself and taking a goddamn shower. Because he isn't a child, goddamnit, he needs to take care for himself _like an adult_. He needs to eat regularly and take walks and make friends and visit his mother. He needs to go grocery shopping and to the bar and to baseball games and movies.

He needs to be a regular person again.

This is _ridiculous_.

Some soldiers come back missing limbs and the victims of torture and other horrors. What has he suffered? 

So he lost his friend, big deal. A lot of soldiers lose friends and come back and they're _fine._

It's not even that bad. He wasn't injured and he should be great, he thinks, except Sam seems to have this inability to get his shit together and _stop losing his mind._

He's undeserving of all his misery. He doesn't have the right to be this upset. He hasn't gone through anything terrible enough to warrant it.

He doesn't have the right.

He's being selfish, ungrateful and horrible and he knows it.

So he takes his shower and tries not to zone out and stare at the tiles on the wall.

By the times he's dressed and in his kitchen he's completely exhausted and can barely stay present long enough to make himself a cup of coffee. He's fading, the edges of his vision blurring before he wrenches himself out of his disassociative stupor with a frustrated groan. He blinks a few times, standing in his kitchen and looks around. He's so tired and his eyes are drooping but he refuses to fall asleep, to go back to bed. Because that would mean defeat. It would mean that he can't take care of himself or function and he can't admit to that.

That's pathetic.

It's not that bad.

He's being a baby.

He's a grown ass man. He can make himself breakfast.

Sam drags his tired body around the kitchen and makes a cup of steaming coffee _(which he burns himself doing, of course_ ) and goes to put sugar and milk in it before it strikes him that-

he doesn't remember how he likes his coffee anymore. 

Does he even like coffee? Or milk or sugar? What _does_ he like?

His eyes struggle to focus and he sighs heavily before dumping it in the sink.

Instead he makes some toast, and tries not to collapse.

He ends up being able to keep the bread down.

He marks the day as a success.

And he feels even more pathetic.

 

~

 

He visits his mom on a Tuesday.

Week five.

He'd gotten around to checking his phone and listening to the messages left on it, quite a few from the hospital about all of his missed appointments.

The majority were from his mom and his sister.

He feels guilty.

They're his family and he knows he's worrying them. And all because he's too busy having some undeserved pity party and he can't be bothered to give a damn about anyone else.

He felt awful, listening to his mother's worried voice over the phone and his sister's pleading with him to _'Just pick up the phone, Sam. I need to know you're okay..'._

So that's why he's standing in front of his mom's house, the one he grew up in, the general absurd hugeness of the house and the garden just like how he remembers it just before he joined the Air Force and the luxury car in the driveway that used to be his dad's.

 

He remembers when they moved in here. Sam was 7 and Carly was 11 and they were thrilled. Their mom and dad kissed and smiled on the front lawn as the men moved their furniture in and Sam and his sister had ran around the yard screaming with excitement.

It feels like forever ago. It doesn't even feel like it happened to Sam at all. 

More like it's a memory that happened to someone else and Sam is just imagining it as they tell him about it.

He refuses to dwell on it.

He's tired but as he knocks he finds that he fills with anxiety about what his mother will think when he sees him. He looks like hell, he knows he does. He has bags under his eyes and he's lost weight. His clothes hang off of him and he's shaking, he can feel it.

He takes a deep breath as the door opens, and is faced with the sight of his sister. 

He hasn't seen her in forever. She's just as tall and graceful as he remembers, her curly hair framing her face and tumbling down her back. She's the same shade of brown as him, deep and dark, her black hair matching her eyes and her tall stature hovering over him. He takes in her yellow sundress and her flats to match, her brown eyes widening and her smile bursting suddenly.

"Sammy!" she squeals, pulling him into a tight hug, "Oh my god, baby brother!"

He feels warmth bloom inside him as he hugs her back and struggles to breathe.

"Hey, Carly."

Quicker than he can blink she lets him go and grabs his hand, happily squealing and dragging him into the house and he only gets a small glimpse of what new interior decorating his mom has done before he is face to face with his mother.

His sister is a whirlwind, how could he have forgotten that?

His mom, unlike is sister, is slightly shorter than him, and skinnier than them both. She wears a sharp navy blue skirt suit, her curls mirroring his sister's, though short and gray-almost white-and her eyes portraying the same gentle yet firm love he's relied on his entire life.

He looks at his mom and she looks back, her smile soft and her hands clasped together in front of her and he realizes that she's waiting for him to make the first move, so as not to make him uncomfortable. 

She always knows exactly what to do.

She is not bouncy, beaming or animated like his sister. If Carly is bright sunshine, then his mother is the soft glow of the sun between clouds on a rainy day. Soft and subtle. Unobtrusive, but just as comforting.

He looks at his mother for a moment, and remembers gripping her tight when he was scared as a boy and her cradling him and soothing him, wearing the same expression she's wearing now.

He looks at his mother.

And Sam launches himself into her arms and sobs. 

 

~

He tries therapy, after that.

He goes once, talks a bit about Riley and the ambush-

and completely relapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave it to Sam to expect himself to be a-okay after seeing his best friend blown up right before his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

In the end, the panic attack he'd succumbed to should not have surprised him.

He couldn't even make it out of the therapist's office before he felt his lungs constricted and his breath becoming shallow.

~

_"How do these birds keep findin' you, man?" Riley asks._

_They're sitting on top of one of the tanks stationed sat their base camp, their wing-packs leaning against the vehicle on the ground. They're in their uniforms--they're never out of their uniforms these days--the sun beating down on them and Riley's blond hair turning almost white and blinding in the light. They sit closer and closer these days, their legs touching as they eat or shoulders in constant contact as they run drills. They've avoided talking about it, but they both knew what was happening. Something was changing. Sam often looks up to see Riley smiling at him and sidling over in that way that he used to walk up to girls he would try to hit on. Sam can't exactly pin point when Riley started ignoring the women and instead using his methods on him. He doesn't care. He leans his head on Riley's shoulder when he's tired and Riley curls up next to Sam when he can't sleep._

_They need each other. And if that translates into romance, then why stop a good thing?_

_Riley is his soul mate._

_There's no one else. And the way Riley looks at him tells Sam that he's the only one for him too. They say a lot without actually talking at all._

_'Go with the flow, Wilson.' Sam tells himself._

_Sam looks up from his sandwich, and looks at the blond man whose blue eyes are trained on his brown ones. He freezes and stares into his eyes, before he shakes himself out of his daze._

_"What?"_

_The blond man laughs and gently tilts Sam's chin up, his hands cradling his face._

_"Up there." He whispers, his southern drawl making Sam's skin heat._

_And there they are._

_Birds._

_Of every kind, circling Sam from above, colors whirling in the air._

_Sam feels his heart stop, not from fear (he never feels safer than when he's with Riley) but from sheer awe. The light of the sun reflects on the feathers and result in a collage of colors swirling above them._

_Sam doesn't know how long he sits there, looking up at these birds that seem to have come out of nowhere, but when he looks back at Riley, the man is looking at him with the softest look in his eyes before he kisses him softly, his lips hesitant and plush against Sam's as he says, "I think they like you almost as much as I do."_

_~_

Sam finds himself all the more frustrated because he was getting better.

He was eating semi-regularly and visiting his mother and sleeping less.

Hell, he even went on a _walk_ yesterday. A damn _walk_. Nothing says _'I am totally a-ok and I don't have a care in the fucking world'_ like a walk. Granted, he could only bear to be out for about 10 minutes before he felt the beginnings of panic rising in his throat, and he's sure he looked like complete shit, but the point is he actually did _something to entertain himself._

But most importantly, he actually went to the therapy session. Everything inside him screamed _'no'_ but he sucked it up and went. He even smiled for the gray-haired, pale woman who asked him to talk about the ambush. He smiled and he spoke in an even tone ( _because he's totally fine, thank you very much)_ and he gave details he didn't even know he _remembered_ before today.

Sue him, he calls that improvement.

But as he made his way to leave, something snapped and he just _lost_ it.

And that's why he's on his knees on the ground with the receptionist ('Bonnie', he learned her name was, when she greeted him so kindly as he shuffled in and asked for Dr. Winsler) rubbing his back and shushing him softly. 

He feels her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back and he opens his eyes and tries to catch his breath when he sees his therapist's kind face fill his vision.

She was an older woman, Sam observed as he first laid eyes on her--when she called his name and he shuffled into her office from the waiting room before mumbling a hello. She had turned and smiled, _'I've been waiting for the day you'd show up Mr. Wilson.'_ \--but it wasn't something you could tell by the wrinkles on her face or the clothes she wore. She wore a sharp gray pantsuit,--she reminded Sam eerily of his mother,that might be why he immediately trusted her--Sam could tell she was older because of the wisdom she exuded. The kind of wisdom that only comes with age.

So he spilled everything. And the result is him having a panic attack in the damn waiting room.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and dully realizes that it's the Doctor's.

"Mr. Wilson?"

Sam tries to gulp down some air.

"Mr. Wilson can you hear me?" 

He remembers blond hair-

"Mr. Wilson, breathe for me."

and blue eyes-

"Bonnie, get him some water..."

-and birds.

~

_Sam and Riley lay curled up together in Sam's bunk, their legs intertwined and their breath ghosting over each other, their fingers lay laced together between them._

_Riley yawns and Sam chuckles._

_A momentary feeling of happiness before the sadness stills their lungs again._

_It was a routine mission--simple enough--but due to a hidden sniper they lost one of their own._

_It's never a good feeling, and James had been a good kid. He didn't deserve to go like that._

_So they lay together because they refuse to be apart at the best of times, why would they separate when gloom and death sets in?_

_They hadn't bothered to change out of their uniforms, and Sam is vaguely aware how gross that is, but he feels Riley's thumb rub soothing circles over his knuckles and the complaint dies on his tongue._

_"Saw a lotta birds today." Riley drawls._

_"Me too." Sam smiles._

_"It's like they were protectin' you or somethin'."_

_"Your imagination is out of this world, man."_

_Riley makes an obnoxious, exaggerated and faked expression of offense and says,"I ain't lyin'. They looked like they were tryna' protect you."_

_Sam laughs softly._

_And that's when Riley kisses him again._

_Sam feels his eyes slip closed, focusing on the feeling as his hand clutches the blond a little tighter. They separate and the dark skinned man exhales softly._

_"Sam?"_

_He opens his eyes._

_"We've been through hell together. And I ain't talkin' about just today." Riley starts, his voice soft._

_"Yeah."_

_"We've been attached at the hip for 7 years." The blond man breathes, "Ever since we met we've been closer than anyone ever has been or could be. We know things about each other we've never told anyone else."_

_"That's true."_

_"A-and outta those 7 years, I've been in love with you for at least 5."_

_Sam's breath catches, his heart thuds and Riley's cheeks take on an interesting hue of red._

_"And I know you're in love with me too." Riley says, and Sam can feel his hand shaking in his, "I can see it."_

_It feels like a weight lifts off of the dark skinned man's shoulders when he chokes out, "I am. God, Riley, of course I am."_

_Riley smiles, his face lighting up and beaming, though he still looks hesitant._

_"I'm going to marry you, Sam Wilson." he whispers, looking down at their hands intertwined._

_Sam feels like his heart has stopped as he gasps softly at the confession and the determination in the blond man's voice. He bites his lip and looks at his soulmate._

_He surges forward and kisses him, ripping his hand from Riley's and instead running his hands through his hair, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around his neck. He kisses him until they're breathless and gasping, their chests heaving and they're flush against each other._

_"Say that again." He breathes, and he knows he's shaking and his voice is a wreck, but he needs to hear that again, he needs to hear Riley say it one more time._

_Riley laughs softly before he pulls back and looks into Sam's brown eyes. The blond man grabs both sides of his face gently and looks at him sternly, determination making his eyes hard with want._

_"I'm gonna fuckin' marry you, Sam Wilson."_

_Sam exhales sharply, like the fact that it has been repeated makes it more real._

_"It'll be a good ol' fashion southern weddin'." the blond continues, looking as serious as he ever has, "Your family will come on down to Georgia and we'll figure everythin' out but the most important thing is," He says, staring into Sam's eyes, unblinking_ _"-I'm gonna marry you."_

_Sam looks in his eyes before he clenches his jaw._

_"You better. Riley, you fucking better."_

_The blond moves his hands to circle Sam's waist as he shuffles closer._

_"I will."_

_He kisses Riley again._

_And feels like he's just learned to breathe._

_~_

Somewhere in the confusion Sam feels himself start to cry.

It's not the discomfort, the feeling that his skin doesn't fit or the anxiety--like he's felt all these months--it's the bone-deep feeling of sadness that weighs on his very soul because _Riley is gone._

He's gone and he's never coming back.

It hasn't truly hit him before now.

"Mr. Wilson?"

He looks up and blinks away tears, his blurred vision clearing to see Dr. Winsler looking at him with something he didn't expect to see.

Understanding.

Bonnie returns with the water, the young brunette handing the paper cup to Sam as he sips from it gingerly, his movements delicate. He feels like he might break apart.

Something has changed. He knows it has. The anxiety and general numbness has given way to excruciating pain and sadness.

If he felt like he was dying before, he feels like he's burning alive now. _And it's so much worse._

The ache in his chest and behind his eyes will kill him. He's sure of it.

"Mr. Wilson?"

He looks up from his shaking hands and into the face of the doctor.

"'M sorry." He mumbles, he doesn't even have the strength to feel embarrassed. He hurts too much.

"No apologies needed, dear." She says, brushing off his apology with a flippant wave of her hand.

Bonnie quips a happy, "It's okay Mr. Wilson!" before he smiles at him warmly.

He doesn't smile back, but he appreciates her warm expression. He really does.

Bonnie stands up next to him and extends her hand.

He takes it as she pulls him to stand, "I was messed up when I got here too," she smiles, "We'll all learn to heal. Even when it seems like we'll feel horrible forever."

Sam looks at her before he croaks, tears drying on his cheeks, "You were treated here too?"

The brunette nods, her pale face turning slightly pink, "Yep. I wasn't doing so well, but I'm a lot better now." She smiles again, gentler this time, "It helps in the long run, it really does. Please stick with it. Please do, I know it's hard but it helps. It really does."

"Bonnie has come a long way," the Doctor says, smiling at the younger woman, "And you can too, Mr. Wilson."

Sam feels like he's rotting from the inside out.

"It just gets worse before it gets better."

~

Sam goes home and stays in bed for four days.

He hasn't eaten and he hasn't spoken.

One step forward, nine steps back, he supposes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I had to rewrite some stuff, plus I was having a terrible week. But I 'll make sure to update quicker from here on in.


	5. Chapter 5

"How do you remember Riley, Mr .Wilson?"

Sam's head snaps up and he looks at the doctor with wide eyes, "What do you mean?"

It's their 6th session, and Sam doesn't feel any better than when he started, but he keeps getting out of bed and arriving every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, so he counts that as a win.

At least he's winning the little battles. Well, sometimes.

"How do you feel when you think about him?"

"I try not to think about him."

"And does that help?"

"...Not sure."

The Doctor leans back in her chair and Sam busies himself looking around her office while he scribbles something on a pad. He doesn't want to know what it says. He knows he's messed up, he doesn't need any more confirmation. Since the first session--and Sam's subsequent embarrassing breakdown in the waiting area--they've avoided talking about Riley. They've spoken about his childhood, his mom, his father and his sister, but not Riley. 

Sam feels pathetic talking about anything at all.

"Did you eat today?" Dr. Winsler asks, her eyebrows rising as she watches Sam fidget and squirm.

He knows there's no point in lying. She seems to be able to pick them out.

"No."

"Why?"

"Not hungry."

She tilts her head slightly, her gray hair falling over her shoulder, "If you can't eat, Mr. Wilson. How do you expect to be able to do anything else?"

"I don't want to do anything else."

"Food is the foundation of a functional life. It's at the bottom of the pyramid. At the top is social interaction, friends, happiness, love," she ticks them off on her fingers and Sam tries not to cringe at the sound of her fingernails clicking together. The sharp sounds rattle in his ears as he drones on and on about the things he _should_ be doing, and he bites his tongue to hold down the frustrated wail building in his throat.

"Are you listening to me, Sam?"

He focuses and looks at her, and wonders if he looks as tired as he feels.

"Yes."

It's a lie, they both know it is. He's zoned out again and the Doctor knows it because she scribbles on her pad and looks at him imploringly.

"The point is, Sam, that you have to be able to handle the basics before you move onto the more exciting things in life. It's a pyramid. Without the foundation, like food or taking proper take of yourself, the entire thing crumbles. The foundation is key. And then you can build up."

Sam doesn't care of it crumbles. He just wants to go back to sleep. But he figures that's why he's in therapy in the first place.

Because he _only_ wants to sleep.

"So what have you done to entertain yourself this week?" she asks. He knows she's trying to drum up conversation and get him talking, he's just exhausted and can't seem to focus. This is their thing. The Doctor challenges Sam to find new ways to keep himself busy over the course of each week and he tries to fill the quota. He doesn't know how he feels about the exercise. He feels dead no matter what. But he does it.

It keeps her off his back.

He rubs a hand down his face before he mumbles, "I went to see my mom and my sister."

He feels like a little kid reporting how his day at school went.

"And how was that?"

"It was okay. My sister is still too hyper and my mom tries to make me eat too much, but it was nice."

"And what else did you do this week?"

"I took a walk."

"Where?"

"Around my block. I didn't feel like going too far."

"That's fair. Meet anybody new?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Don't want to." Sam says, and it's true. He can barely keep in consistent contact with people he knows now, why add more to the mix? He's just not ready for new friends. He barely likes himself.

~

He exits the waiting room and nods a shaky goodbye to Bonnie as she types away at her computer. She smiles and chirps a happy "Bye Sam!" and then he feels himself collide with a broad, solid figure.

Sam scolds himself mentally for not paying attention before he looks up and mumbles.

"Sorry."

The man is Asian, his hair pulled back into a messy bun, and he's bigger than Sam, but he smiles lightly as he steadies the dark-skinned man and grins sheepishly, "No, I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going."

Sam looks up again and catches sight of the man's face and stares at him for a beat too long. 

"Ah, it's fine. I wasn't paying attention either."

The man smiles and shrugs. His face turning slightly pink before he asks, "What's your name?"

"Sam." he says and he notices that this man is really good looking. It doesn't completely floor him, but not because the man isn't that incredibly hot (because he is) but because Sam is exhausted and still more than a little unhappy in general. Still, he has the common courtesy manage a shaky, lackluster smile and ask, "And what's your name?"

"Alex. Very nice to meet you, Sam."

Sam sees the pink in the man's cheeks but he has no idea what it means. He needs to go home and _sleep_ , and this is precisely why. People are confusing and tiring and he doesn't know how to read them anymore.

"Nice to meet you too."

"Hopefully I'll see you around."

 

Why? Why does he want to see him _'around'_? Sam has the sinking feeling that he's missed something big, but he feels his mood shift from confusion to it's usual apathetic indifference and then he doesn't care anymore.

"Maybe." Sam says dully.

Alex smiles, before he eyes Sam and walks toward the office door.

Sam turns and leaves.

He gets home and sleep for 14 hours straight.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sam runs into Alex every now and again, usually when he's headed out of therapy and can't be bothered with the pleasantries of small talk. 

He wonders why the man keeps talking to him at all.

Sam has been exhausted and tense every time they've spoken. He looks terrible, he knows he does, and he's irritable and just plain _depressing_ to talk to _and_ look at, but Alex continues to smile and ask him how he's doing. Sam doesn't understand it.

This is why he doesn't talk to anyone anymore, he realizes when Alex grins at him and Bonnie looks on with smug interest. He has no idea what's going on. 

So he stands there in the waiting area, looking at Alex's broad chest as the man asks him if he'd like to go for coffee sometime.

Sam doesn't know what to say. Does he even like coffee? Why does Alex--good-looking, kind-hearted Alex, who always asks him how his day is going or if he's okay after every session when Sam trudges out of the office looking more miserable than when he came in-- want to spend time with him? Sam knows he isn't the best company, he barely wants to spend time with himself. He's a sad sack and he doesn't know how to carry a conversation.

So, why?

Bonnie gasps in excitement from behind her desk when she hears Alex's shy question and Sam snaps out of his thoughts. His first instinct is to refuse and save the man the trouble. Alex is a good guy, but Sam doesn't feel ready for this. Any of it.

But he looks up and as he opens his mouth he feels his resolve waver.

"Sure." he hears himself say and the world, surprisingly, doesn't come crashing down.

Alex just beams. And Bonnie squeals behind them and Alex's head jerks up as he looks over Sam's head, blushing a light pink when he realizes they have an audience. 

"Oh," he says, looking slightly embarrassed.

Sam can't help but think he looks pretty cute. The guys is huge, but he's blushing pink and looking like he wants to sink into the floor.

Sam feels his face split into a small smile as he walks over to Bonnie's desk, avoiding her eyes and picks up a pen. 

He walks back up to the large man and grabs his hand, uncapping the pen and scrawling his number on his palm while Bonnie looks on, smiling widely.

"My number." Sam says, and looks back up at Alex. He smiles, a small and fragile thing, but Alex looks at his hand and beams back.

"Thanks." he breathes as Sam returns the pen to a gushing Bonnie before he turns and smiles softly at a blushing Alex--who's looking at his hand like it holds a valuable prize-- and turns to walk out of the door of the waiting room.

He gets out on the street and wonders why the fuck he did that.

~

Sam burrows himself under his covers and panics.

He _can't_. He _can't_ do this.

He's not built for this kind of stuff anymore. All traces of the social butterfly he was died with Riley.

_**Riley.** _

Is he betraying him? He can't go out with another man. Riley was the _one_ for him, and now he feels like he's thrown out his memory and moved on.

He _can't_. He _can't_ go.

Alex is nice and everything, but Sam feels like he's dying and he can only remember Riley's face smiling at him on the other side of his pillow in his bunk, he can still feel their legs intertwined and their noses bumping together.

_"I'm going to fucking marry you, Sam Wilson."_

Sam feels the first sob and the next thing he knows, he curling in on himself and trying not to hyperventilate as sobs wrack his body and his fingers scratch into his arms. He feels like his skin is ripping apart, like his insides are rotting--some sort of disgusting mold spreading and contaminating his insides and he can't get it _out_ \--and his head is pounding. He curls in tighter, balling himself up in his hoodie as he tries to keep the tattered strings holding his body together from ripping.

He's not doing a very good job.

Just giving Alex his number felt like a betrayal. Like he'd just spit on Riley's very _memory_. 

God, Sam is such an _asshole_.

He considers taking one of the kitchen knives to his neck and cutting it all short, maybe that would make the ghosts go away. Maybe then he could finally _breathe_.

He doesn't though. Not out of any noble and inspiring will to live, but because he doesn't feel like moving right now. He doesn't have the strength.

He falls asleep.

 ~  
  


Sam awakens 15 hours later, his head pounding and his eyes basically swollen shut from crying and he still can't find the strength to move. He needs a shower, he knows he does, but just breathing is difficult. He feels like he's aware of every single facet of his body at the same time, and it's uncomfortable. He feels his ribs grating against the bed and it hurts a bit as he blinks up at the ceiling when he finally surfaces from his blanket submarine. His chest hurts and he still feels like walking straight into traffic, but at least he got some sleep. 

Sam shifts, and turns to lay on his stomach, face first into the pillow, until he feels pathetic enough to get his sorry ass up and take a shower.

It still takes a while though.

_'Come on Wilson. Be an adult, you idiot. Quit moping about nothing.'_

That's the only thing that works in terms of motivating him. He bullies himself until he hates himself, but he's functional (barely) and he gets stuff done (eventually).

Pathetic. Lazy. Idiot. Dumbfuck. Moron. Ungrateful prick. All words he calls himself over and over and over again.

Riley used to call him amazing. Strong. Beautiful. Brave. Brilliant. Wonderful. Lovely.

But he doesn't deserve those words anymore. He doesn't deserve Riley's praises. _Anyone's_ praises, really.

Because he couldn't save him.

The one thing he should have done and he failed. Riley was depending on him to be his wingman, to watch his back, and he let him die. Because he's useless.

And now he's laying in bed pouting and acting like he has actual problems when he's just being ungrateful and childish.

_'It's not that bad, other people have it worse._

_So your soulmate died, big deal. People go through that all the time.'_

Sam's ungrateful, he knows he is.

He rips himself off of his bed and throws himself in the shower. He doesn't hear Alex call the first time.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sam is so sick of himself.

He sick of feeling like he's barely staying awake and he's so fucking _sick_ of being bored and uninterested and totally, utterly and completely _lifeless_.

That doesn't mean he can shake himself into wakefulness though.

He doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand why his mind and his body is _doing_ this to him.

He lays in bed, the blankets pressing him into the mattress and he wonders why the _hell_ this is happening to him.

He can't even say that this is something that's happening to him, because it's something he's doing to _himself_.

He's to blame for this. It's his fault that his brain isn't making the proper chemicals or that he's sluggish and tired and has the burning behind his eyes. It's his fault that his skin seems to far too small and his head pounds in a steady rhythm at around the same time each day. 

He can't do this. 

He'd listened to the message Alex left a day ago, his warm voice floating around Sam's cold frame as he shivered in his bedroom. 

He didn't know what to say, so he didn't call him back.

Sam knows he should get up. He's more than able-bodied enough to do so--despite being a bit shaky due to lack of nutrition, because apparently Sam is a child and can't take care of himself--and he should get up and do something. 

 _'Get up, Wilson. You lazy ass.'_ he thinks, blinking slowly, his eyelids scraping against his eyeballs painfully.

Well at least he's not crying.

Sam has been doing that a lot lately--crying. Pathetic sobs and streams of tears and painful, jerky hiccups that makes his lungs spasm painfully.

Sam shifts and rolls over on his side, his arms hanging over the edge of the mattress and he inhales deeply, feeling his tired lungs expand and his chest move. It helps a little, and he starts the tiring process of getting himself out of bed. He forces his body to sit up and he lifts heavy arms to rub at his eyes, looking around his dimmed bedroom. The mahogany chest his mother brought him when he first moved in sits under the large window covered with the thick white drapes and the painting his sister bought him hangs on the opposite wall, along with the drawing gifted to him from his nieces.

Now that he thinks about it, he misses them. Carly had asked if he wanted to visit, she'd told him they missed him but he didn't think he was ready to be around two jumpy 10 year old twins. He didn't have it in him. He misses his sister too, and his mom. He's not good with maintaining relationships anymore, and it kills him.

He's lonely, but he can't seems to muster the strength to reach out for anyone. He can't seem to break through the mask of indifference, apathy and exhaustion and actually bother to hold a conversation. It's too tiring and he doesn't know what to say.

Basically, he's a shit person to talk to these days. He's also incredibly oblivious to the rest of the world, he realizes, seeing as he only realized it was December a week ago. He'd seen the lights and heard the music and all that, but it had completely gone over his head. He hadn't cared, and the world seemed to be passing him by. Wasn't this the time for family and all that? 

The chest catches his attention again. It's vintage looking (his mother had told him that that was a part of the charm) and adorned with gold accents that had started chipping off and Sam struggles from under the covers and walks toward it. He sits in front of it and unlatches the buckles with a _'click'_ before opening it gently and peering inside.

Stray pictures and photo albums lay inside--untouched but only lightly covered with dust-- and Sam rises on his knees and looks at the memories laying before him.

He's kind of afraid to touch the photos, and Sam knows how ridiculous that is, to be hesitant to touch old, yellowing photographs and paper, but he can't shake the uneasiness. 

These are the remnants of his old life.

Before the military, he before he met Riley, before he was such a _goddamned mess_.

When everything was simpler. Happy, even.

He doesn't know if he can handle going through these things. Sam doesn't know what will happen when he opens that first photo album or sees a smiling picture of himself when he was 6, or photos when his dad was alive and his mom used to smile so easily or his sister hugging their childhood dog. It seems like so long ago that he used to actually be a _person_ , who smiled and laughed and went to parties and teased his older sister or helped his mom in the kitchen. That version of Sam feels like an ancient memory, or worse, a story about someone happy or carefree that he heard about a while ago but can't fully relate to.

He sits back with a heavy sigh and has an idea.

~

He calls his sister.

Sam's hand is shaking as he does it, and he gets the number wrong at least 6 times due to pathetic lapses in memory, but he gets it eventually and tries to keep his heart from jumping out of his chest when he hears Carly answer.

"Sammy?" her voice is soft, hopeful and filled with disbelief.

Sam's heart clenches.

"Hey, Carly."

"Sammy!" she sighs, and Sam doesn't quite understand why she sounds so damn _happy_ to hear from him. It's just him, and it's not like he's anyone remotely special or amazing. Hell, it's 6 pm and he's just _now_ getting out of bed.

Not even remotely amazing, he thinks dryly to himself.

"Uh, yeah."

"I'm so glad to hear from you, baby brother." she says, and she sounds so fucking genuine and _touched_ , like he's done something so amazing by calling her and reaching out.

Sam doesn't get it.

"Oh uh-yeah." he says dumbly, looking at the ground, "I found some old stuff, and I...I was wondering if you want to come over and go through it with me?"

He has no idea if he's doing this whole _'communication_ ' thing right, but when he hears his sister's soft startled gasp from the other end of the line, he guesses he must be doing something pretty fucking amazing.

"Oh, of course!" she chirps, and _there she goes, sounding all happy and enchanted again_ , Sam thinks. "I'll be there. Do you need anything? Do you want me to bring anything? We can maybe bake something? Maybe I can bring some cookie dough and we can make some Christmas cookies like we used to. Or we can-"

"Uh-sure." Sam croaks, already feeling overwhelmed, "Sure, Carly."

He hopes he doesn't sound as small and afraid as he feels.

Sam hears rustling on the other line and the faint jingle of keys, and can visualize his hyper puppy of a sister whirring around her condo, her curly hair flying about.

"Be there soon, baby brother." she says hurriedly, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

He hangs up the phone and wonders dully if he's made a mistake. He loves his sister, he does, he loves her to death, but she's about as overwhelming as a crowd of people yelling at a concert or a parade. She's a whirlwind and a hurricane all wrapped up in a smile and a playful wink.

He sighs, the deed is done now, and she's going to be here soon whether he thinks he's made a mistake or not, so he might as well try to look like he's put together. 

Sam changes out of his sweatshirt and puts on a faded, gray, knitted sweater and a pair of sweatpants. He considers jeans but he's still at home and it's just his sister, so he doesn't put too much effort into clothing. Why would he? He looks like a wreck these days anyway.

He drags the chest into his living room and plops himself onto the couch and waits until he dozes off, his head lolling to the side until he hears a sharp knock and he jerks awake.

He sits up quickly and rubs at his eyes, looking at the clock and wondering why it took his sister so long to get here. She lives only about 20 minutes away, but it took her two hours to arrive. Another knock echoes through his empty apartment and he cringes at the sound and inches over to open the door.

He's greeted with the site of his big sister, smiling brightly wrapped in a bright yellow scarf and a pink coat, her hands in light blue mittens and snow lightly dusting her curls-

and some guys holding a huge Christmas tree behind her.

"Hi Sammy!" she chirps excitedly, rushing to hug him. He opens his mouth to say something but he can't find the words. It's not like she notices though, because the next thing he knows he's standing by the door as the men bring in the ridiculous tree and place it in the corner of his living room.

He balks at the huge bags of groceries and decorations that come trooping into his apartment next, carried by more men who eye his sister like they're looking at a shooting star and does as she says, like puppies hoping for a treat. He's not surprised. Carly always had men wrapped around her finger. Sam hides behind his front door and peeks around as his sister gracefully gives them their orders, telling them where to place things like a queen ordering her minions around.

Sam feels small, like no more than a doorknob or a speck of dust.

He stays out of their way.

Eventually the men leave after the tree has been set up and the groceries put away, and Sam can comfortably disconnect himself from the door.

"So what do you think?" Carly asks, her smile bright as she drags him to the tree, "I picked out the best one I could find."

Sam looks up at the tree, and although it's bare, he has to admit _it's an impressive tree_.

"It's nice." he says, and he cringes at how small his voice sounds. He feels his sister wrap an arm around his shoulders, hugging him to her side as she bounces happily next to him.

"This is going to be the best Christmas ever, little brother." she chirps.

He sincerely doubts that, but instead he says, "You say that every year."

She shrugs, "Well, _you're_ here. We haven't had Christmas together since you ran off to the military. So yeah," she says, "It's going to be the best Christmas ever. We're all together again."

She sounds so content and happy that Sam feels a little less gloom and doom himself. He feels more _awake_ somehow too.

"You didn't need to buy me a tree, you know." he says.

"Oh please, Sam." she smirks, "You would never have bought it yourself so _clearly_ I had to do it." she replies, before she releases him and peels off her coat and her scarf along with her mittens, "I also bought you groceries because I knew you'd have nothing here."

"What makes you think that?" Sam says, a little offended. Just because he can't be bothered to feed himself because he's a failure of an adult doesn't mean that he's _okay_ with her _knowing_ that he can't be bothered to feed himself because he's a failure of an adult.

"Big sister instincts." she says, turning to him with a dramatic flourish on her way to the kitchen and peering at him mischievously and tapping the side of her head, "I know you better than you think I do, Sammy."

His sister hums a tune and daintily spins her way into his kitchen, her stocking feet padding along the floor and her blue dress whirling around her.

He feels a feeble smile make its way onto his face.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam can't say he's thrilled when they start baking cookies. Mostly because he knows his sister is going to make him eat them.

She hums and glides around his kitchen, now littered with wrappers from various foods and the grocery bags containing them. Sam trudges behind her and does as he's told. 

As melancholy as he is, he feels a bit better as his sister moves around him and shows him how to mix the icing. He feels like a kid again, and he remembers a gangly Carly with too big glasses and a lisp teaching him exactly how much sugar to put in the mix or exactly how high to preheat the oven. He can almost see his mother standing in the doorway smiling, like she used to when they used to spend the day in the kitchen as children.

They were happy and carefree back then. Now Sam has a fun collection of emotional and mental illnesses, Carly is divorced with two girls and their dad is dead.

 _'Merry Christmas, here's to growing up'_ he thinks bitterly to himself.

"I think we need some music." Carly chirps, making her way to Sam's radio and switching it on, fiddling with the dial.

"You never do things halfway, do you?" he says, and he can hear how dead his voice sounds and he cringes.

"Nope!" she beams, settling on a station that has a choir enthusiastically singing 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'. Sam feels the corners of his mouth quirk up, and he can tell it's a pathetic attempt at a smile, but hey, he's trying. So he gives himself points for that. He turns to the mixture he's been struggling with and tries to fight down the nausea that makes it's way around his stomach as he smells the cookies in the oven. It's a thick, sugary scent and he tries to block it out, because even though he's reluctant, he doesn't want to ruin his sister's festive cheer with puking. 

His stomach has probably shrunken to the size of a mouse.

Pathetic.

It takes entirely too long for him to realize that his sister hasn't reentered the kitchen, and he turns around to ask what's going on and _it was your idea to make these cookies don't ditch me with them-_

until he sees her sitting in front of the chest, pictures in her hands and tears making steady, quiet streams down her face. He freezes and his stomach twists, and he finds out this is his least favorite feeling. Even as low as he's been lately, and how terrible he's felt, the sight of his sister hurting seems to be what hurts the most.

He puts down the spoon and walks over to where she sits on the carpet. The chest is open and he can see their faces smiling up at him from where he looks down. It hurts a bit, seeing how happy they used to be. Now it's all gone to shit.

"Not all of it," Carly says, tears in her voice but still managing to sound indignant and he realizes he said that out loud. "It's not all...completely bad....just...different." she sniffs, and Sam lowers himself down next to her. He doesn't reach in and search the chest himself, he finds that he's afraid to touch them. They're just old photos, but he can't seem to be able to get over the irrational fear that something terrible will happen if he picks one up. 

So he looks over Carly shoulder as she flips through photo after photo of their vacation to Paris when Sam was 6 and Carly was 10. Their dad beams in front of the Eiffel Tower and the next photo has both of their parents smiling and laughing together. Sam remembers that picture, he held his sister's hand as she took it.

"You puked right after that." She giggles. 

She's right, he had. A mixture of too much cheese and the cab ride all around the city ended in Sam throwing up in a trashcan while Carly laughed and their parents fretted.

"Shut up." he mumbles, and he can feel his skin heating up slightly.

"Aw, don't pout baby bro. It wasn't your fault." she teases, picking up more photos from the chest. She stops when she catches sight of the first picture in the stack.

Sam smiling widely in his uniform before he was deployed.

Sam looks over curiously, and almost chokes on his tongue.

God, he looks so _happy_. _Why_? What the hell was he _thinking_?

 

 

War isn't for smiling or feeling safe.

 

 

_'Sam and Riley lay curled up together in Sam's bunk, their legs intertwined and their breath ghosting over each other, their fingers lay laced together between them.'_

 

War isn't for meeting grinning, blond-haired, southern gentlemen.

 

_"And I know you're in love with me too." Riley says, and Sam can feel his hand shaking in his, "I can see it."_

 

War isn't for being proposed to and claimed by the man who loves every inch of you for you and nothing else in bunks surrounded by guns and grenades.

 

_"It'll be a good ol' fashion southern weddin'." the blond continues, looking as serious as he ever has, "Your family will come on down to Georgia and we'll figure everythin' out but the most important thing is," He says, staring into Sam's eyes, unblinking  "-I'm gonna marry you."_

 

War isn't for falling in love or imagining blue eyes and soft smiles when you're being shot at and you're terrified.

 

_'He kisses Riley again.'_

 

War isn't for flying and saving lives hand in hand.

 

_'And that's when Riley kisses him again.'_

 

What the hell was he thinking?

 

_'I'm going to fucking marry you, Sam Wilson'_

 

"Sam?"

He hears his sister, though it sounds distant and he can't quite pinpoint where she is. His mind struggles to figure out why, but he soon realizes that tears have blurred his vision to the point when he can't even make out the shapes in front to of him.

It all comes back to him at once.

And suddenly his hearing sharpens, and along with his sisters voice, he hears his own.

Broken, shattered sobs intermixed with painful hiccups.

God, how pathetic.

He blink and feels the fat tears run down his face, further drenching it, and he feels Carly wrap her arms around him and he tries not to pull away or curl in on himself because _god, this is his big sister and she wants to help._

He can't live like this. He needs people, he does, even when he'd rather rip out his tongue than admit it most days.

He curls into his sister, who is now whispering little comforts and Sam cries until he's exhausted. It doesn't take too long. He's always exhausted.

She doesn't leave, and he doesn't die, even though he feels like he will. 

Every flash of Riley's face runs through his mind, and he's sure he's going to be like this forever. What option is there left for him?

His sobs die down to pathetic little hiccups and he pulls back from his sister, his face sore and swollen. He knows he looks awful, his eyes are red and he still has silent tears running down his face and _fuck_ , it feels like his entire _soul_ is crying.

He settles back on his legs, Carly across from him. They're silent, and Sam can't bring himself to look at her. 

It's not embarrassment, it runs so much deeper than that. It feels so much worse. It's shame. Burning hot shame that makes him want to scream and claw at himself until he gets to his insides so he can fucking _fix_ himself. He wishes he could just cut himself open and maneuver the proper pieces back into place, make himself functional,or better yet, just pull the plug and end it.

"Sammy?" Carly says, and his heart sinks even lower. Because that sad sound in her voice? That hopeless tone winding its way in her vocals? It should never be there.

She should be joyful and shining all the time, and Sam can't help the though that he's bringing her down.

He's just bringing everyone down.

"Sammy?" Carly says again, and Sam bites his tongue as more tears spill down his cheeks as he clenches his eyes shut, why did he think he could do this-

He feels her takes his hands in hers, and senses her shuffling closer to him, "Sammy?"

He takes a shuddering breath and opens his eyes. She has tears running down her face too, not anywhere as messy or pathetic as Sam's, but she looks heartbroken all the same.

"Oh little brother, what happened to you?" she sighs, "What did they do to you over there?" her voice thin and sad.

Sam gathers the strength he never knew he had and opens his mouth after a deep, shuddering, painful breath.

And with the thick, heady smell of cookies in the air, and with Christmas carols pumping songs of cheer into the atmosphere--he tells her.


	9. Chapter 9

He tells her everything.

About Riley and his proposal, about the heat of the sun bearing down on them, the jokes and the kisses, and the freedom of flying with the man he loved by his side, about the attack and the hospital afterwards. About the crushing loneliness he felt (and still feels) when he came back home.

He tells her everything.

By the end he's all out of tears and Carly's face is more heartbroken than he's ever seen it, but he feels a bit better, he supposes. There still an unbearable ache, but talking about it with someone who he knew actually cares helps more than he ever thought it could. He's not too surprised at that fact, he finds.

"Oh, Sam." his sister chokes out, once his babbling has died down and he's finally locked his heart up again and stifled the bleeding.

She cries and he tries not to, and in the end, they end up talking about how much life has changed.

She even gets a shaky smile out of him.

He tries not to be too insulted at the heartbroken and worried looks she shoots him when she thinks he can't see. He doesn't address it.

He couldn't bear it.

~

And that's how Christmas goes.

Sam spends it with his mother and sister, skipping a few days of therapy (because if he's honest with himself, talking to Carly had been emotionally taxing enough, and sue him, he wants to spend the holidays doing what _he_  wants to do. Not in some office talking about the single most devastating thing that has ever happened in his life and trying not to have a panic attack as he steps out the door) and trying to keep himself together while surrounded by food that smells a bit too strongly for his churning stomach, and the idle talk and gift giving.

He survives, but not without accumulating some scars.

He'd eaten as much as he could (which, according to his mother, wasn't nearly enough) and he had nothing else to talk about or news to report about how life is going for him. The calls from distant relative she hardly remembers had drained him of every bit of precious energy (emotionally and physically) that he managed to stockpile so far. He spends the day far too exhausted and just plain sad, and he can't seem to muster any excitement for the holiday or the fact that an uncle or two stopped by.

He knows he looks awful,  _hell_ , he  _feels_  awful.

The worst thing is seeing it on his family member's faces.

They hug him as if he might break, and when they talk to him they lower their voices as if talking to a scared child. Some stay a considerable distance away, and that makes him so angry because  _dammit he can handle this-_

except he knows he can't.

Sam knows that if they stepped any closer, spoke any louder or hugged any tighter he'd had succumb to a meltdown or a panic attack ages ago. And that's what stings most of all.

As much as he hates their gentle and hesitant treatment, he knows he needs it.

_Fuck._

It isn't until 9pm on Christmas day that he realizes something else.

_Where are all the children?_

Granted, his family isn't nearly as big as it used to be (and isn't  _that_  depressing, that 90% of Sam's family seemed to have withered away and died while he wasn't paying attention) but he knows that 5 of his cousins currently have toddlers, another one has a 12 year old and then there are Carly's twin girls, who he just...hasn't seen.

He looks around the study where they've all gathered in his mothers' house--the tree and the fireplace giving off the only light in the room, tingeing the browns and burgundy sofas, bookcases and rugs in a soothing orange glow--

and he suddenly feels more distant, fragile and excluded than he did before because it's so  _obvious_  isn't it?

They'd left the children at home because poor, delicate and  _broken_  Sam probably couldn't handle the  _noise_ , or the chaos or the clutter of little people running everywhere.

He's become a damn  _leper_. In his own family. They'd all huddled around and decided that he wasn't strong enough and they'd adjusted their plans accordingly.

And suddenly it's like he's hyper aware of...everything.

He's standing in a corner, having ditched the eggnog an aunt had handed him because  _'you look like you could use a nice sugary drink Sammy, you're so skinny-'_

And he's seeing how they glance at him--worry, hesitance and pity on their features--and suddenly he's convinced he can't stay.

So Sam Wilson edges out of the room filled to the brim with his relatives, creeps up the stairs and books it to his old room.

~

It's just as he remembered it.

Sam is laying there, staring at his old Jackson 5 poster, curled up on his old bed (star wars sheets and all) when he hears a knock at the door. He doesn't have time to mumble the 'come in' before he hears footsteps rounding the side of the bed, and he drags his eyes from Jermaine Jackson's smiling face only to faced with the sight of his childhood friend, looking down at him with his hands in his pockets. Sam feels his eyes widen as he sits up quickly, his tired body protesting as he ignores it and launches himself into James' arms, hugging him tightly. He feels the man chuckle and return the hug just as tight.

He looks exactly how Sam remembers him.

Still blue eyed and smiling.

_They'd been inseparable when they were younger._

_When Sam had been a deep brown, big-eyed and gangly little boy who'd just moved in across the street. Carly had been called away by some of the neighborhood girls who he could see she was now giggling with, and Sam had looked on as his sister made new friends and his parents directed the men into moving the furniture into the new house. Everything was so...new._

_Sam had felt a tap on his shoulder--soft and hesitant--and he'd turned around to be faced with a boy with light brown skin and blue eyes, the jersey he wore slightly rumpled and soccer ball under his arm. He was slightly taller than Sam and he'd grinned, missing two front teeth and his eyes bright as he stuck out his hand._

_"Hi. I'm James."_

They'd been attached the hip ever since. 

Until Sam had run off to the military and James had been off doing god knows what, but Sam can hardly believe his luck because  _here he is._

Right here.

Wow.

They pull away, and that's when Sam gets a good look at him. His face hasn't changed but he's broad shouldered and well muscled.

"Wow. Sam." he says, eyes bright as he looks at him. Sam feels a sharp wave of self-consciousness, like his PTSD and fun assortment of other emotional problems are a physical manifestation on his face. 

"Hey, James." 

It's the most normal sentence Sam has said for a while. It feels so...conversational. 

They talk for a few hours, catching up as James laughs and fills him in on what he's been up to for the better half of the decade and Sam glosses over the more distressing details of his discharge from the military and subsequent veteran care.

James doesn't need to know all the details.

They talk then exchange numbers, vowing to get back in touch and get to _know each other again_ , and Sam feels like the knot of anxiety and estrangement has loosened the smallest bit.

He leaves his mother's home on Christmas day, reconnected with an old friend and feeling--for the first time since being shipped back home--okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James' physical appearance is taken from the actor Michael Ealy :)


	10. Chapter 10

Sam and James agree to meet up every Monday for coffee.

That, along with therapy and an awkward conversation with Alex all combine and lead to Sam spending New Years Eve in a small restaurant for dinner with the large man sitting across from him.

And it's not as bad as Sam figured it would be. He's still not one for frequent outings, and certainly not ones as extravagant as this. The restaurant is a little loud and smells a little too much like the food being served, and Sam doesn't feel inclined to eat too much, but the man smiling softly at him across the small, candlelit table helps him swallow down his anxiety and actually enjoy the conversation. 

_'And isn't that amazing?'_ he thinks.

Sam enjoys it. He has to start being normal again at some point, right?

He even laughs a few times. Nothing big, just a chuckle, but it's enough to astound even himself. And when he laughs, Alex's smile gets bigger, almost blinding, and Sam can't help but think that this was the right decision.

"You say you're not good conversation Sam, but I think this is the most riveting conversation I've had in a while." he smiles, his eyes sparkling.

Sam freezes at that and looks up at the large man in front of him, "Really?"

"Yeah. You're pretty funny too." Alex says, drinking from his glass, "Though I don't think you really notice."

Wow, that's...not what he expected to hear. At all.

"Well...thanks." he stutters, his face heating up.

They agree to go out again.

Sam knows it isn't nearly as big as an accomplishment as it feels, but he's proud of himself anyway.

He's really, really proud of himself.

And that's something he'd really thought he lost.

~

If Sam had his way, he'd never go to therapy again.

He's _sick_ of talking about his issues and everything he does wrong, because the list seems to be ever expanding and getting worse and worse. And Jesus, he gets it, he doesn't eat enough and he sleeps _too_ much and he doesn't go out enough or talk enough or smile enough. He gets it.

He's failing the class of life.

He got an F and is pretty much flunking out.

He gets it. 

Why go talk about it every week?

"And how was your dinner with Alex?" the gray haired women across from him asks.

Sam looks at her and considers lying. He could say they fucked, just to make her uncomfortable and get her off the subject. He could describe it in vivid detail so she never asks again.

But if there's one thing he knows about his doctor its that she's headstrong. She'd see right through him in a heartbeat.

So he sighs, his eyelids drooping because that date with Alex seems to have drained every ounce of energy he'd stored up this past week and says, "It was fine."

"Just fine?"

"It was nice. He's nice."

The doctor leans back in her chair, "And how did you feel?"

Sam sighs and leans back in the armchair. He has no idea how he felt. He knows what he feels as long as it's a negative feeling and it's in the moment he's asked, but after the feeling passes he can never seem to place it.

There's a fog on his brain. A fog that's so thick he can only see what's right in front of his face and no further than that.

He barely remembers how he felt.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" she asks evenly, and he feels a spike of annoyance at the soft and firm tone she's taken to using with him.

"I don't...remember."

"You don't remember how you felt?"

"...No."

She leans forward slightly and Sam feels his breath hitch and his fists clench in fear. Suddenly it feels like she's too close, and he supposes it shows on his face because she leans back slowly, and doesn't continue talking until Sam's breathing evens out and his hands relax.

And when the panic passes he immediately feels like a fucking idiot. This is what Sam Wilson does now. 

Sam Wilson, who used to fly into battlefields and save others like a goddamn guardian angel, now can't handle anything other than silence and stillness.

Pathetic.

He stops clenching them and instead drops his hands in his lap, nervously picking at his fingers.

"Is there any reason why you think you don't remember how you felt?" she asks, voice soft.

Sam picks at his hands a bit harder, anxiety making him fidgety. He feels like his skin is buzzing just under the surface and if he can pick hard enough he can let it out--

"I...it feels like fog." Sam says, his voice thin and tired. He has no idea why he's saying this, it only makes him sound more unhinged. 

"Fog?" she asks seriously, as if Sam isn't talking nonsense.

"It's like...nothing feels real except what's happening in the moment. So, I can't remember what I felt..before. Or after."

"I understand. That's completely normal, Sam. It's a kind of disassociation."

Sam looks at her before he nods wearily and looks down at his fingers.

He's bleeding.

~

The day after that Sam decides that every other morning, he's going to get up and go jogging.

He needs to start living again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, I'm sorry! The next one will be longer.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THIS CHAPTER IS A BIT GRAPHIC AND DARK.**

Sam supposes things are okay for a while. And by 'okay' he means bad, but not terrible.

Until things actually end up being terrible.

He goes out with Alex, smiles and laughs and tries not to lose is fucking mind or look as eager as he is to get away. He visits his mom and his sister, and goes to therapy.

The awful thing is that he's started lying.

He lies to his mom when she tenderly lays a hand on his arm and asks how he's doing after a hesitant hug. He lies when Carly chirps at him from across her living room, where Sam is huddled on the couch freezing and trying not to shiver. He lies when Alex asks him if he wants to go out to dinner, he lies when he says he already ate and would rather go to a movie. He lies to his therapist when she asks how his week went.

He's started lying.

And the more lies he tells the less he eats.

He's constantly shaking, but honestly, he doesn't notice as much as he probably should.

He can't piece together why he can't seem to be bothered to eat anymore, and some dark corner of his mind volunteers that he can't stand to get better, not really. Maybe this, whatever sadness or fucked up emotional problem that he's been dealing with has somehow become too precious to him and now he can't let it go.

It's like a demon that he pets and curls up with at night.

He doesn't want to get better.

And he finds that the worse he feels inside, the more he works to portray that he's okay on the outside.

And its working.

Sam is getting better and better at acting.

~

A cold and grey Monday morning in February sees Sam Wilson sitting at his kitchen island, hunched over in a huge blue sweater, bags under his eyes and his skinny torso shaking slightly as he stares at a carton of orange juice.

He wants it. He does.

His stomach wants it, his brain wants it, his very _blood_ wants it.

But he can't seem to reach his shaking hand out and pour a glass.

The gallon of juice is full, only opened once but even when he'd opened it a few days ago he hadn't drank from it. He'd been too afraid. He doesn't know what he's afraid of, but the faceless fear is terrifying so he listens to it. He has the fleeting thought--sitting there in his dark kitchen at 3 am--that the jug would be too heavy for him to lift anyway. He'd probably drop it and spill it all. And then he'd have to clean it up.

So, no orange juice.

He's tells himself it's to avoid a mess. But deep down he feels like he doesn't deserve it.

Sam Wilson doesn't deserve anything.

~

Sam knows that nothing is more dangerous than clinging to those feelings.

He knows that he's ridiculous.

He knows that the fact that he's not eating is cause for concern, but some part of him tries to convince the bigger part of him that it's not that serious. He scolds himself for being a child, because honestly, he should be able to do something simple, like eating, and only teenagers go through these idiotic phases where food is an enemy.

Sam is a grown man. A grown _black_ man, no less. This isn't cute for him. This isn't sympathetic when _he_ does it. It's pathetic. The world is a lot harder on him than it is on everyone else. He isn't allowed to be like this.

God, he used to be a _soldier_. He used to be able to leap into warzones and pull people out without a second thought. He used to not be so....disgusting.

And that what he feels like he is. Disgusting.

~

_He has a dream one night that he's in a restaurant. The same one he went to with Alex, the atmosphere exactly the same, Alex sitting across from him, smiling._

_The dream continues just like the actual dinner did, but Sam feels as if there's something...off._

_It's like that feeling when he's creeping in the dark and he's waiting for something to jump out at him. As if something horrifying is about to happen._

_Sam knows that feeling far too well._

_Something dark and ominous shivers down dream-Sam's spine, but he ignores it until the restaurant dims a bit, and even in this dreamscape, in this lack of consciousness, Sam can feel his stomach bottom out._

_He looks down at his plate, and then the horror begins._

_And all he sees are the remains of Riley's burnt body, just like he saw it when it was falling through the air. Charred pieces of his skin, of his teeth...of his hair._

_Riley's blond hair. Riley's skin, and bits of his beautiful body-_

_Piled high on his plate. On the end of his fork._

_And suddenly dream-Sam is choking, what little bit of food he's eaten coming up as he retches, the stink of burning flesh and Riley's last pain filled scream echoing louder and louder in the building._

_Sam coughs up bits of his dead fiance until he wakes up with a scream._

Sam throws up in his toilet, a cold sweat all over his body as he shakes. The ceramic under his fingers is freezing, but he couldn't care less, he's reeling and sick to his stomach and so fucking hurt he can barely think straight.

What is wrong with him? What's wrong with his brain? What kind of sick person dreams _that_ up?

He's a _monster._  

He's grown so used to silent tears that the choking sobs that rack his body and the sounds that wrench from his throat sound extraordinarily painful and alarming , but he can't seem to calm down. 

He can only distantly feel his body shaking violently, his head swimming and his eyes watering.

And because Sam has the worst luck of all, it isn't a nightmare that vanishes like mist when he tries to remember it.

He remembers it clearly. In vivid detail. With HD picture and sound.

By 2 am he's considering snuffing out the flame of his life.

Like a candle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to give you all whiplash with the ups and downs of Sam's recovery, but that's how depression and ptsd work. One week you're okay, and the next you're a mess and it feels like you haven't made any progress at all. Sometimes it isn't even a week, sometimes it's minute to minute or hour to hour. Some of you guys have said that this story is hard to read, and I totally get it, but I just wanted to make it realistic while avoiding cliches. I have also been going through some tough times lately, and a lot of Sam's issues in this story are things I struggle with myself. I suppose this is a coping method for me. However, if you are triggered, please take your health into account first. I just want everyone to be safe and happy, and if this story is triggering or hard for you to read for any reason and you really can't handle it, please make sure that you're safe. PLEASE. Thanks so much for your kind words of encouragement, please feel free to leave more comments, I love you all :)


	12. Chapter 12

In the end, Sam doesn't take the kitchen knife and give in to the voices in his head telling him to end it.

He still considers it an option though.

A glowing exit sign at a horrible party he wants to leave. A conclusion, a solution.

~

Things outside of Sam's head mellow out after that.

Things inside Sam's head...well. They still have a way of getting to him.

The nightmares have taken on strange shapes, colors and sounds. He can't remember them, but he wakes up in a cold sweat with words forming strange sentences he can barely understand rattling around his head.

The first nightmare still makes him vaguely nauseous whenever his mind chooses to betray him and bring it up. He eats even less after that. And never meat.

But all in all. Things have been quiet.

He's grateful.

~

And it's all quiet until a commanding officer calls him and tell him they're doing a special ceremony for Riley.

He's pissed. He'd been just trying to get by without having another mental break. He'd been visiting his mother, calling his sister, going out with Alex and James. He'd even been considering telling his doctor about his eating issues in an attempt to get some help.

But of course, he couldn't be left in peace for longer than a goddamn week. Of course. Of fucking course.

Sam Wilson answers the phone on a Friday evening.

Sam Wilson's stomach drops when he hears the man on the other line telling him about the remembrance ceremony in honor of the one man that's been haunting him since he left.

Sam Wilson barely gets the words out, and after he's said them he hardly remembers what he's even said, before he's hung up the phone and is throwing up stomach acid in his sink.

Then he has the worst panic attack of his life. 

~

Sam vomits again when breathing gets easier.

~  
His doctor tells him that suffering through panic attacks alone aren't ideal.

Sam disagrees.

He'd rather be alone than for anyone to see him like that. People look at him and think he's broken enough. And the worst part is, he still doesn't  _understand_  it. 

He's physically fine ( _'if a bit malnourished'_ , his brain supplies, but that's his own fault), he has family and two friends (and yeah, people have more, but Sam isn't really the social butterfly he once was), he has a nice home (his mother makes sure of that), and he has free time to spare and doesn't have to worry about money (again, thanks so his mother, because Sam is currently too much of a wreck to do much, and he feels like shit about that, but there isn't much he can do when he can barely manage eating, and it's not like his family isn't pretentiously wealthy so it's not like it's a problem).

So what _is_ the problem? Sure, he lost someone, but does that really warrant this kind of breakdown and horrible reaction? Maybe for abut two weeks, but it's been _months_ , and he's still so fucking weak that he can barely function.

Riley would be so fucking ashamed of him.

He's completely fallen apart and he barely has a reason to. He hasn't suffered anything especially horrific and he's just being ridiculous at this point.

He doesn't have the right to be this messed up. There are _children_ that have gone through worse things.

_Pathetic._

~

Sam tells his therapist all this in a rare moment when the frustration and desperation overwhelms him during a session. By the time Sam realizes what he's said, he's been ranting and scolding himself for ten minutes, and is breathing heavy and in shock from his outburst of anger directed at himself. Her eyes narrow, like they always do when she knows that he's being brutally honest and not making up mundane bullshit to pass the time so she can nod and he can leave without talking about the tough stuff.

The woman leans forward, a gray curl bouncing onto her shoulder after having escaped the confines of her bun.

"And would you say that to someone else?" she asks evenly.

Sam looks up sharply, his brow furrowing, "What?"

"All of those things you've just said about yourself. If someone other than you were in this predicament, and hurting in the way you're hurting, would you say that to them?"

Sam's mind reels to a stop before her takes a shaky breath, "No, of course not."

He feels like he should know where this is going, but he's a bit lost. He feels like he's missing something vital. 

Well, he's not very good at reading people or gauging social interactions anymore, so he doesn't think much of it until the doctor asks, "So why in the world do you think it's okay to say such cruel things to yourself?"

Sam blanks.

He's sitting in a plush chair that swallows him up, and he's already drowning in his clothes, and he feels _small_.

He has no idea what to say to that.

"You hold yourself to an impossibly high standard, Sam." She says, her voice soft yet firm,"You wouldn't be so cruel to someone else, you would validate their feelings and empathize with them, try to understand and tell them that they have the right to feel how they feel. You would comfort them, and do all you can to help them, because that's just the kind of person you are."

Sam is silent.

"But yet, when it comes to yourself," she says slowly, "You bully yourself into getting over it. You scold yourself and belittle your own problems. You're rather, _mean_ and _unkind_ to yourself, Sam. That's not the way to handle it. You're just as deserving of help and sympathy as anyone else would be. Your feelings are not suddenly intolerable, pathetic and invalid because they belong to _you_. You have to get around to seeing that."

It makes sense to him logically, but he still can't quite get his heart around it.

He knows she wants to talk more about it, and get in depth, so he changes the subject (because he's had quite enough soul searching for today, thank you very much) and blurts out the first thing that pops into his head.

Unfortunately, it's not anything mundane or derailing (because if there's _one_ thing Sam Wilson's brain is bad at, it's actually _working_ with him), but it's another topic that he doesn't want to talk about.

"There's going to be a ceremony for Riley." he blurts, before he visibly flinches and proceeds to mentally kick himself.

_Fuck. Can't do anything right._

"Oh really?" she says, from her seat across from him, "And how are you feeling about that?"

Sam sighs and burrows himself down further in his seat. He feels a bit like a bratty child as he does it, but sue him, he just wants to go home and get under the covers and forget that everything--including his own mind--exists.

Sam doesn't want to, but he answers.

"I wish they wouldn't." he says quietly, guilt seeping into his mind.

"And why's that?"

"Because I want to forget about it."

_Forget about Riley._

The unspoken words hang in the air and Sam feels _horrible_ but it's true. He wants to forget he'd ever met him.

He's knows he's being ungrateful and completely selfish and disgusting. Wanting to forget someone who made him so happy and who gave him so such until the very end makes him feel like the scum of the earth.

And honestly, how dare he? Riley gave him so many smiles, laughs and kisses and what does Sam do in return? Wishes he never met him.

Sam Wilson can't wait to get to hell. It's where he belongs.

He wants to scrub his memory out because it's _hurting_ him, damn near _killing him_ a bit every day, and Sam doesn't want the memories if they're going to make him want to die. He wants to _live_.

The realization hits him like a train, and the raw desperation behind the words nearly knocks the breath out of him.

_He wants to live._

_Sam Wilson._

_Wants._

_To._

_Live._

The world fades out momentarily, and all Sam can hear is the beating of his heart. He wants to live.

~

"That's normal and understandable, Sam. But I think you should go." she replies breaking him away from his revelation, watching him carefully.

She does that whenever she proposes an idea she knows he won't really like.

And she's right, he really doesn't like that suggestion.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"On the contrary," she replies, "It's a great idea. One of the problems is that you never got closure, Sam. You were sent home and that was it. Why do you think we hold funerals? The fact that death quickly came and took someone we knew and loved can leave a lot of ghosts behind. Funerals and ceremonies of dedication put those ghosts to rest."

"And if it doesn't?" Sam asks, his voice tired, "And if it awakens more ghosts, then what?"

"You're living with ghosts now, Sam. I think it's worth a try. There is something to be said about seeing something through to the end, and you-" she points at him, "need to see Riley through to the end."

Sam takes shaky breath.

"And that means laying him to rest."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm so so so sorry about how long this chapter took, and I'll make an effort to update more quickly from here on in! I think this will be about 20 chapters, and I'm juggling a few other stories (*sigh*) but I'll be more diligent about updating, sorry for the long wait!


	13. Chapter 13

The ceremony for Riley is on a Thursday.

So on Tuesday afternoon, he lets his mother drag him away from his blankets and loose sweatshirts and take him to a sickeningly pretentious part of town to get measured for a suit.

He somewhat regrets telling her and Carly about the ceremony, because in doing that he basically confirmed his attendance, seeing as they won't let him skip it and stay at home and sleep. Which, if he's honest, is what he really wants to do. The last thing Sam wants to do is face everyone he left behind at the Air Force. His old squadron will be there, he's sure, and probably a few members of Riley's family. 

He doesn't want to go. Everything in his blood is screaming no. 

Sam knows he hasn't made much progress in his recovery, but he's sure that this is going to be what ruins him.

He doesn't know what to expect, but the fact that his mother is currently tutting at his measurements and how thin he's gotten doesn't really make him feel any braver.

~

He throws up Thursday morning. 

Not the best start to the day, he'll admit. But he gathers what little bravery he's been hoarding since he got the call to attend the service and cleans himself up, showers, even manages to eat ( _though it's just a half an apple, but fuck it, Sam thinks, it's progress and he's low enough that he'll pat himself on the back for it because he is just so far past caring_ ) before checking himself in the mirror to make sure he at least somewhat  _resembles_ a human being.

He looks at himself in his plain black suit (he'd begged his mother to hold off on the fancy stuff, just this once, he doesn't want to stand out more than he's sure he already will) and what he sees makes him want to go right back to bed and never come out from under the blankets again.

Not because he looks awful, but because he actually looks _okay_. Somewhat.

He looks a bit like his old self and something about that frightens and angers him. A part of him can't help but think that he doesn't deserve this. Any of it. The suit, his home, his family, James, Alex....

Riley.

He didn't deserve Riley because in the end he couldn't save him. He couldn't do a damn thing. He just...let him die. And at that ceremony today, everyone will know. They always knew, he's willing to bet, but now he'll be faced with looking in the faces of the family of the man he loved but failed.

The one he couldn't save.

_Weak. Pathetic. Useless._

In the end, Sam Wilson swallows back his tears and makes his way out of the door to the military issued car waiting in front of the house for him.

He deserves this. He deserves to see the accusatory faces of Riley's family.

He couldn't save him.

He deserves to see the damage he's done.

~

The ceremony hall is large and spacious but packed with people when Sam arrives. He knows his sister and mother are inside are probably about two clicks from hunting him down, but he stops when he catches sight of so many blond heads that he has no idea if he's in the right place. He stands by the door, at a loss for words, before his sluggish mind catches up.

Sam almost bolts.

_Because it's Riley's blond hair._

_Riley's family._

And that when his mind snaps to attention and he starts panicking. _Suddenly there's too much space and too much oxygen and it's all travelling in and out of his lungs too fast and he can't get any air-_

He can't do this. He can't. He can't face all of them, Sam can barely speak to his  _own_  family. His own family treats him like he's made of glass and that's because he is. He's weak. He isn't ready for this. He can't do it. He can't he can't he can't he can't-

"Wilson?"

Sam can't hear much over his labored and panicked breathing, but that voice cuts through and it's so  _familiar_  that it rings a bell in him that makes everything sharper as his mind races to place it-

_Anders._

Percy Anders. Flight tester #3 for the Falcon experimental gear pack.

United States Air Force.

Slept in bunk #4.

Assigned to gear pack #5.

_Percy Anders._

Fellow soldier. Friend.

Sam blinks away the shock and slowly looks up from where his eyes are glued to the ground.

Anders looks...pretty much just how Sam remembers him. The man is still a blue-eyed brunette with a hard stare and muscular build, though Sam can see an underlying sadness and hesitance that was never there when they served together.

~

_"Would you two lovebirds quit staring at each other?" Anders says sharply, a hint of a smile in his voice, "I'm seriously tired of third wheelin it here."_

_They're sitting around a fire, their gear tossed aside and the heat still seeping into their dirty, sweat covered skin, but for now they're safe, they're with each other, and they're happy. Sam sits across from Riley and--up until a few minutes ago--was fully participating in conversation, until Riley looked over at him, blue eye piercing, even in the darkness and making Sam's neck and face heat up._

_He's stopped talking, unable to move his gaze, and Riley'd stop talking himself and seemed content to just stare back at Sam._

_It took about 2 minutes for Anders to stop talking after he realized they weren't listening._

_Sam is aware, in some distant and remote part of his mind that they're being slightly gross, mushy and ridiculous, but he still can't seem to look away._

_Because he's staring at his fiance._

_The news that they're engaged hits him in waves every now and again, and right now, he can only look at the man across from him and think, 'Husband-to-be'._

_"Guys, seriously!" Anders sighs, throwing his hands up in exasperation._

_They both seem to snap out of it, Riley still smiling and Sam a bit embarrassed. He's not quite used to people knowing about him and Riley yet. Their relationship had always been their world, private and remote--a bit of a secret, really-- an island away from everyone else, but now it's more of a small city. It's populated now. With people. Sam has no issue with that, he's very close to the guys he's stationed with. They fly together, and they all clung to each other when the wingpacks were first introduced. They were all afraid, wary but headstrong, willing to embrace the clouds if it meant saving a life, though fearing the inevitable fall should the experimental wings fail them._

_They haven't failed them yet._

_Birds of a feather, all of them._

_"Sorry, man." Sam says sheepishly. Riley--the smug bastard--just takes another bite of his food and laughs._

_Anders rolls his eyes and smirks, "Fuckin' lovey dovey couples, man."_

~

"Anders." Sam says, and his voice sounds heavy even to his own ears.

The man stands in front of Sam and looks at him for a moment, his face blank before he moves forward and envelopes him in a firm hug.

Sam has no idea what to do and his arms flop uselessly at his sides. He doesn't know how to act around his old friend anymore, he has no idea what to say or what to ask or-

"It's really good to see you, Sam." Anders says, his voice dull and weary as he takes a step back and takes a good look at the dark-skinned man, "You look like hell, buddy."

Sam doesn't expect that, and the fact that it's such a _blunt_ and obviously honest response is just so fucking _like_  Anders that Sam laughs. It's a watery sound, but it's a genuine laugh nonetheless.

Because God, someone is  _finally_  acting like themselves around him. And he's fucking thrilled.

"Yeah, laugh all you want," Anders says smugly, "You still look like you got ran over by a truck."

Sam smiles, and thanks God for normalcy. If even for a few short minutes.

"Nice to see you too, Percy." he says shakily, but with a hint of a smug smile on his face that shows that he remembers how much the other man hates his first name.

Anders gasps and slaps a hand to his chest dramatically, "Oh Jesus, Wilson. You wound me."

Sam's chuckles and Anders puts a hand on his shoulder, the weight both grounding and a bit ominous. He looks Sam in the face, his expression sobered and sincere before he says, "But seriously, I'm really, really glad you could make it, Sam. Riley's mom is pretty keen on meeting you and it means a lot to all of us that you're here. He loved you more than anything." 

Sam tries not to flinch, but he feels the smile vanish from his face before he nods slowly, avoiding the other man's eyes.

"Thanks, Anders." he says quietly.

He feels an arm wind around his shoulders and the next thing he knows he's being steered into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I'll try to update more in the future. My mood has taken quite a downward spiral so I'm struggling to keep up. Please be patient with me!
> 
> Feel free to talk to me at 808s-and-disco-face.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

And of course, when the doors open and Sam is dragged into the room, every blond head turns around and looks directly at him.

Suddenly he can't breathe.

There are too many people in here. Too many eyes. Too many people who look like him and Sam has been running from him as long as he possibly can-

"Wilson?" Anders says evenly--looking straight ahead, his hand on Sam's shoulder like a grounding weight and Sam can tell he's trying not to embarrass him or put him on the spot--his voice holding a hint of concern. 

Sam realizes he's stopped walking and is staring into space.

The he immediately starts to panic when he hears a hushed and shocked, "That's him!" from the side of room that holds Riley's family.

Anders then decides to tries to move him--his arm wrapping around Sam's tense shoulders once more and steering him towards a seat--and that's all Sam needs in order to snap out of it and stop acting like a fucking psycho in front of all these people.

He mentally scolds himself and tries to hold it together and the room settles down.

He feels better now that he's out of the way and no longer visible and the center of attention, but only a little. Sam subconsciously curls up on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible and he can't fathom why in the hell he thought this was a good idea he should have-

"Hey, cut it out." Anders says, nudging him, "You're doing that thing where you shut down and think too much. Quit it."

Sam looks at him, and thanks his lucky stars that Anders is treating him normally, at least. He nods--a quick, jerky movement--and settles in and looks toward the stage.

It's decorated with Riley's photos. He's seen them all before, Riley showed Sam all of them, sharing the stories behind them and smirking as Sam teased him for the bowl cut he wore as a child or the fact that he had braces in high school.

Sam remembers. He remembers like it just happened.

He clenches his fist until it hurts, until he feels a hand take his and softly uncurl his fingers, his fingernails leaving little crescent shaped marks on his palm.

Carly.

His sister takes his hand and shuffles closer.

And as a stoic-faced man stiffly walks on stage and starts recounting the highlights of Riley's military career and acts of heroism, Sam exhales and tightens his grip on his sister's hand.

He doesn't really listen, choosing to instead let the words roll over him in waves while he zones out. It's nothing he hasn't heard before.

He and Riley had been attached at the hip, he knows everything about him. So Sam lets his mind wander as the man speaks.

Halfway through, it hits him that yeah, the man is giving the audience _facts_ about Riley, but he isn't really describing him. Not how he was as a person. He can't describe his smile, or his bright eyes and ruggedly handsome face. He can't describe his accent or how much he raved about his mother's cooking. He can't describe how he made Sam _feel_. How he loved him. How he sunk into his bed every night and held him like he was some sort of precious, valuable jewel.

The moon and the stars.

He can't describe how Riley loved the sky. How flying was one of his favorite pastimes. He can't describe how his favorite soda was Mountain Dew or how he wanted to drag Sam to Georgia the first chance he got because he was so stunned (and quite frankly, a bit offended on his behalf) that he'd never had authentic southern sweet tea. How he took to calling Sam 'little bird' because of how well Sam took to the skies.

The man on stage lists Riley's military accomplishments like he's rattling off a grocery list, and there's a distinct lack of heart in it that Sam is sure Riley would have fucking _hated_. 

Sam tightens his hold on his sister's hand and waits for it to be over.

~

It ends quicker than he anticipated. The man finishes, adjusts his uniform before announcing that anyone else can come up and say a few words about Riley if they wish to. 

He walks off stage as stiffly as he walked on, his many medals of honor glinting in the light.

The place starts to hum with conversation after a moment of silence, and Sam finds a feeling of agitation climbing up his throat at the sudden buzzes of sound and the feeling of bodies moving around him. It's suddenly too much and Sam wonders if he can just slip out and go home without anyone noticing. Carly would give him hell for it, but he'd deal with it, promise to have brunch with her or something to make up for ditching her.

He also feels a bit faint. He probably should have eaten something today.

Sam squints, the lights suddenly a bit too bright, before he feels a hand on his arm.

Suddenly he realizes that while he was in his head, Carly had moved a few paces away and taken up conversation with a blond man. Obviously one of Riley's family members.

The hand on his arm squeezes, and Sam realizes that someone has been trying to get his attention. He turns slowly, already dreading the social interaction that's sure to take place, trying to jostle his aching head as little as possible and is faced with the sight of a blonde woman who looks to be about 70 years old.

He nearly chokes.

Riley's mother.

They look at each other, Sam trying to catch his breath in aching lungs (' _Dianna_ ', Sam remembers. Riley spoke of his mom often, and Sam is thankful he remembers her name), and Dianna taking in the visage of the startled and troubled young man before her.

Sam can't speak, and the older woman just looks at him, taking him in and Sam knows it's a ridiculous thought, but he can't help thinking that _she knows._

She knows he couldn't _save_ him.

Riley loved Sam so much, and he couldn't save him.

Sam balks.

The older woman looks at him imploringly before she raises and hand and gently cradles Sam's cheek as her eyes soften.

Not what Sam was expecting.

He had no idea what to expect, actually. A slap maybe?

He feels like he deserves it. _If only he'd been quicker or smarter--_

"Sam." she says, her voice soft and reverent, a thumb tracing his cheek, "So you're Sam." She smiles kindly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looks at him, "Oh, I can see why he chose you. You're _beautiful_."

He feels his eyes widen and his jaw slacken the tiniest bit, and he's not sure if he heard her correctly until she smiles wider and says, "My Riley loved you. Wrote about you in every letter he sent home. He spoke like you were the sun and the _stars_ darlin'."

Sam feels his face crumble a bit at her words, his heart clenching and his eyes watering and he's rendered totally speechless, just trying to keep it together.

"I--", Sam starts, his voice cracking as his mind tries to sort through the woman's words and pull out something coherent to say.

"It's okay darlin', I know." she soothes, "He told me how much you loved him too." she smiles sadly, "We were hopin' for a weddin'." she finishes, her smile wilting at the edges.

"He proposed." Sam chokes, his voice rising out of his cracked and broken chest to reassure her, "He wanted to have a wedding in Georgia."

What's left of Sam's heart crumbles when he sees how that breaks her--the woman letting out a small sob, her eyes watering before tears stream down her cheeks.

But then she lets out a watery laugh before she presses her forehead to Sam's gently, whispering, "That's my boy. Didn't let you get away."

Sam hears a broken sob before he realizes it has come from himself, and he feels his hands rest on hers, placed on either side of his face before he croaks a broken and cracked, "I'm _sorry_."

He sobs and repeats it, over and over and at some point she hugs him tightly to her, her tears flowing freely along with Sam's.

He apologizes over and over, pressing them into her hair and skin, trying to atone for something deep down he knows isn't his fault, but that he blames himself for anyway.

_I'm sorry I couldn't save him._

_I'm sorry we lost him._

_I'm sorry there isn't even a body._

_I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough._

_I'm sorry I lived and he died._

_I'm sorry you lost him._

_I'm sorry there's nothing left of him to bury._

_I'm sorry he's gone._

_I'm sorry._

He has no idea how long it's been by the time they stop crying and holding each other, but he knows his face is still wet, and he still feels like death and sorrow and broken promises and sore muscles, but the older woman grabs his face and looks him in the eye, so Sam can't really dwell on the self loathing too long.

"Sam Wilson. Don't you dare spend one more day blamin' yourself." she scolds, sorrow lighting her eyes ablaze, "Riley wouldn't want that, and I don't want that. You can't change fate darlin', and my baby leavin' us wasn't your call to make, nor was it your fault, ya hear? My Riley was a stubborn boy, and he always did what he wanted. He wanted to love you and he wanted to fly, and he did both, so don't you dare get down on yourself for his decisions. They were his own." she leans up slightly and kisses his forehead, determination painting her features as he looks him in the eyes again, "Now, you gotta start livin' again. Don't ask how I know, but I can see you've been havin' a hard time, so I'm tellin' ya darlin', Riley would want you to be happy. As _happy_ as you can be. He would want you to continue bein' happy, even if he ain't around to see it."

Sam blinks, tears running down his face as he looks into the eyes of his dead fiance's mother, who looks back at him with such love he can barely breathe with the force of it and the conviction in her words.

"Ya know what Riley _loved_?" Dianna asks, a blinding smile gracing her face, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she beams at Sam, "He loved _life_. In all forms. So you gotta live _life_ , Sam. For him. Because that what I know he would have wanted for you, darlin'."

Sam's very soul feels heavy--a cracked and hideous thing in her palm--but he smiles feebly and nods shakily.

"So will you live?" she asks hopefully, no longer crying, but smiling kindly at the man that her son loved with his full heart, with everything he had, "Will you live, for him?"

Sam has no idea if he'll succeed, he has no idea if he'll even be _moderately_ successful in this venture, because living requires _eating_ and _meeting people_ , waking up and having a zest for life he'd lost long ago. It requires friendship and socializing. It requires not dreading getting out of bed and it requires making an effort and not wanting to die. It requires keeping down his lunch and not picking the skin on his hands until it bleeds. It requires talking to people.

It requires asking for _help_.

He has no idea if living even suits him anymore. The very concept is like a sweater that's grown too big for him. Or shrunk too small.

But he feels the determined energy of the woman before him, hears her words and makes a decision.

He could fail.

He could fall right on his face.

He could have the worst relapse in history.

But Sam is going to try.

He'll claw himself back to the surface using just his _fingernails_ if he has to. He'll claw his way back until his fingers _bleed_.

But he's going to fucking try.

With everything he has.

_He'll try._

~

Dianna and Valentina get on like a house fire. His mother, the calm and unflappable woman, ever prim and proper, all easy, warm smiles, gentle hugs and tea scented kisses, and Dianna, a blond wildfire who talks with her hands and laughs with all the enthusiasm in the world.

Sam sits between them and listens as Dianna talks about Riley's exploits as a child.

He was a boy with endless energy.

Sam nods as she tells her stories. 

That certainly sounds like Riley.

~

A day later, Sam manages a full meal, throws it up, then signs up for eating disorder outpatient counsel sessions especially for veterans at the closest VA.

All in the span of three hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is so late!!!! I've been so busy with other stories!!! Anyway, here it is!! I'm back to updating more often so stay tuned!!


	15. Chapter 15

Sam thinks about ditching the meeting at least half a dozen times in the span of time it takes him to get dressed and walk out the front door. 

Mostly because he's exhaused. 

The strain of being so productive in such a short span of time makes him want to go back to bed, say fuck it all and sign up for a later meeting. But at this point he knows himself well enough to know that if he does that--gives in to those feelings--he'll trick himself into believing that he needs it less and less and ultimately, it will result in him never going.

He can't afford that. He can see his ribs. He needs _help_.

A tiny voice in his head volunteers the thought that maybe admitting he needs help _could_ be enough for today, and that maybe he can skip the meeting and go back to bed because he has done quite enough today right? Coming to groundbreaking epiphanies and all that.

He pushes the thought back and leaves the house.

He also wonders when that terror filled chill that gathers under his skin whenever he has to step outside will go away.

He gets in the cab, and hopes that it's soon.

~

Sam sits in the back. His heart is pounding in his ears--and has been since he walked up to the front desk of the VA building and was told by the kind older lady sitting at the desk that he would have to sign in--and hasn't stopped since.

People wander in, some men, some women, all shades and shapes and types. It comforts him midly--the thought that no one would think that he's weird for being there, or think he looks out of place or simply doesn't look the type\--but he still shrinks in his seat, gritting his teeth as the knobs of his spine rub harshly along the hard back of the chair.

He winces in pain, but sinks even lower.

The room fills out, and when the leader of the group stands in front and starts welcoming them, Sam has the rotten green feeling like he very much wants to peel the skin off his face.

He picks at his hand instead. A nervous tick he really has to get rid of, seeing as he'll have a very hard time convincing _anyone_ he's sane when he digs his fingernails into the skin of his hand with the intent to tear into the thin flesh there at the first sign of a stressful situation.  


The room is large, with an assortment of bulletin boards holding a variety of flyers for other groups at the VA, and as Sam looks around the room he feels irritation and boredom rising in his chest. Something about the blandness of the room annoys him greatly, though he can't quite pinpoint why.

Sam bites is tongue and just listens as the leader--a kind looking Sikh man who looks to be about in his 40s--smiles, clasps his hands together and says, "Why don't we all introduce ourselves? Get to know each other? I gaurantee this is where you'll find your new best friend."

Irritation flares up a bit hotter because Sam _had_ a best friend, he doesn't need a new one, and if he decides he _does_ , they won't be from a group of people who are just as fucked up as he is.

He says nothing--just slumps down further in his seat, hiding himself--and considers walking out of the room and going home. Everyone is seated, so they'd look at him as he left, and while Sam doesn't want to cause a scene, he doesnt want to stay.

The leader is too cheery for Sam's stormy mood, and something about the room makes his skin itch.

Even so, he forces himself to stay in his seat as people stand and start to introduce themselves. He learns names, connects them to faces, listens to others talk about their time serving their country, where they were stationed--some are air force, some are navy,etc--and notices that no one actually touches on why they're all _actually_ there.

They all can't fucking manage to swallow food like goddamn adults.

Sam resolves to sink further down in his seat as the crowd's attention edges closer and closer to him, his turn coming up. 

Maybe if he leaves now--

"And you, friend?" he hears.

It tears him out of his thoughts, and he mentally kicks himself when he realizes that while he was brooding, the person closest to him had stood up and introduced himself.

It's his turn.

He feels his eyes grow wide as he looks around in shock, before he panics and his body throws himself to his feet. Everyone is looking at him.

He forgets a speak for a moment, and it gives one of the women time to smirk and quip a light and flirty "Whoa, he's cute!" before the leader says, "Marcia, please." as the rest of the group chuckles.

This is a disaster. Sam just wanted to arrive, listen to someone babble encoragements for an hour and then _leave_. And along the way, be magically cured somehow.

He didnt sign up for being forced to talk about himself to a group and have them stare at him. _No one_ who is recovering from anything needs that, in his opinion.

"Uh--my name's Sam." he says haltingly.

"Hellooo Sam!" Marcia quips, wiggling her eyebrows at him. The leader throws his hands up in the air in fond exasperation and the group chuckles again. 

Sam can see her now (just like he can feel the blush making it's way up his neck and face) and he can see she's a Mexican woman with black curly hair. His eyes scan the group and he continues with a quiet, "I was a pararescuman. Served two tours and came home not too long ago."

He moves to sit down but freezes when the leader says, "And how has that been going?"

Sam straightens and says, "Well, I'm _here_ , so not too well."

The group chuckles again and the leader smirks, "Well don't worry, we'll help each other get better. How does that sound?"

The dark-skinned man manages a shaky smile, and replies with a hopeful, "That...would be really nice."

The leader (Sam really has to learn the man's name, he's sure he said it but Sam was probably too busy brooding to catch it) smiles warmly, and Sam sits down feeling a little bit better than when he stood up.

Feeling a little bit _less_ like death warmed over.

It's a nice change.

~

The session goes on, the leader--Mr.Singh, he learns--going over the general layout of each meeting before he declares the first meeting over. 

"There's coffee in the back, and if you could, I think you all should grab a cup, and talk to your fellow veterans before you leave. I'll also be able to answer any questions you have. Have a safe trip home and I hope to see you all next Thursday."

The room blurs into motion, and finds himself carried to the back of the room with the small crowd, and the next thing he knows he's handling a hot cup of coffee--light and sweet, as he's learned he prefers it--as quiet, timid chatter surrounds him, his groupmates trying their hand at stilted conversation and more personal intoductions with whoever they're talking to.

He glances up when another pair of shaking hands edge into his veiw where he's looking down and dumping sugar and creamer in his coffee, desperately trying not to burn himself on the hot liquid--and is faced with Marcia, her hands trembling as she holds her coffe and turns to him.

She's _beautiful_ and Sam feels his brain empty.

"Hey, sorry if I freaked you out earlier." she says, and her voice is deep and soothing to his ears, "I say _everything_ I'm thinking when I'm nervous."

"It's fine, you're pretty cute yourself." he says smartly, flashing a crooked grin.

Where the hell had _that_ come from? Sam Wilson? Flirting?

_These_ days?

_'This group is working already'_ , he thinks as Marcia's face lights up and she beams at him.

"Well thank you!" she chirps, redness making its way up her face but her smile only growing brighter, "It's been a while since someone said that to me."

In his current (and very new) trend of saying the right thing at the right time and being really fucking smooth, Sam says, "I can't see how."

She makes an appreciative noise and hums, "Oh, I like _you_!"

Sam laughs, and it feels real.

~

They talk a bit more at the VA before they end up at cat cafe a few blocks away.

Sam sits across from a smiling Marcia, a black cat having hopped up on their small, round, white table, having taken an interest in them, its yellow eyes flitting between them both.

"This is ridiculously soothing." Marcia smiles. She pets the cat as it purrs, "I can't _believe_ I never thought of getting a therapy animal."

"You should adopt this one," Sam says, "He seems to like you."

"I'll definitely consider it." she says excitedly, cooing at the cat as she scratches behind its ears, "So you were a pararescuman?"

"Yeah, and I heard you say you were in the Navy?"

"Yep, simultaniously the best and worst years of my life."

"How so?" Sam asks, because he finds himself needing to know more about this woman.

She's so funny, kind and interesting that he's curious. He finds himself in the interesting predicament of wanting to be her friend.

"Well, there was the little issue of some people not liking the fact that a Mexican person was serving side by side with them. There was always some all-american boy that thought I was making a mockery of the uniform or something." she sighs, and Sam nods in understanding.

"Yep. Nothing like good old fashion racism." he smirks grimly, and she chuckles.

"You too?" she asks.

Sam nods, "I've come across a few neo nazis parading as military men spewing the n-word at me."

She cringes before she says, "I really don't understand it. We're all in that hell together, why be hateful on top of it? Isn't combat stressful enough?"

Sam chuckles, "I've been asking myself that for _years_." 

Marcia laughs lightly before she sobers a bit, looking Sam in the eye for a long moment before she slowly says, "And I'm sure that me being a trans woman didn't get the bigots on my team."

Sam knows what she's doing, the apprehensive look in her eyes, seeing how he reacts to what she's just said. 

Sam chuckles, "I can only _imagine_. There should be screening process. A _thorough_ one. If you're a narrow-minded, hateful bigot then you don't get to enlist and fight for one of the most diverse countries on earth."

She's quiet for a moment, looking a bit stunned by his immediate and easy answer before she gives him the brightest, most beautiful smile he's ever seen.

"I _like_ you, Sam Wilson." she giggles, "I think I'll keep you."

Sam's answering smile nearly splits his face in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever wake up one day and go 'ya know what? My fic needs a cool and cute mexican trans lady in it'  
> Bc i do.


	16. Chapter 16

She puts him on antidepressants. Among other things. 

A lovely little cocktail of pills.

Wonderful.

The first time she mentions it, Sam's head snaps up so fast he feels his neck protesting, and he stares at his therapist with wide eyes. He has no idea why he's so fucking surprised. Of course Sam Wilson, on top of being a veteran, an antisocial wreck _and_ a head case, also has to be a pill popper.

Of _fucking_ course.

Pathetic.

He shouldn't need a pill just to have the strength to wake up in the morning. He tells her this, his eyes narrowed because he is going to _fight like hell to avoid this--_

"Everyone needs help sometimes Sam. Whether it's from people or medication."

He stares at her. Dr. Winsler sighs and sits back in her chair, eyeing her patient. Sam feels like a child pouting across the desk of a stern schoolteacher. Why must he feel so _small, all the time_? When does it _end_? When can he start doing what _he_ wants with his life without people barging and telling him what he ought to do? And _God_ , he's trying, he really is, and that talk with Riley's mom helped a lot but...

It's _so_ much easier said than done. It was easy to promise to try in that moment, looking at the blond woman, but on a day to day basis?

Well, the point is, Sam has never been great with consistency.

Ever.

"Even if I prescribe these to you, it's no use if you don't take them. I won't be there to monitor you."

Sam narrows his eyes but says nothing. So much for fighting. He has very little to say. She's right, and he knows it, it's just...

Pills mean that he's actually doing _really_ fucking _badly_. Accepting help from people, _that_ he can learn to tolerate, and he _is_ , slowly and surely. But something about accepting help in the form of small, poppy colored inanimate object grates on his nerves.

A small insignificant pill should _not_ be able to help him more than he can help himself.

"I mean to say...maybe someone should be monitoring you, Sam." she says carefully.

Sam sits up straighter, a sudden, nervous cold rushing through his veins and numbing his hands. His stomach is turning and he feels faintly nauseous. He has the dreadful feeling that he knows where this is going.

"What do you mean?" he asks in a panic.

He has no idea why he asked. He could have just tried to change the subject. It wouldn't have worked, she never lets him get too far off topic, but hell, he could have _tried_. 

But when Sam Wilson panics, he panics _hard_. It's all consuming.

He's thorough like that.

"I mean--" she starts, sensing his unease, "Have you considered trying inpatient care?"

"I _am_ getting...care." Sam blurts out, panic building.

"I mean a hospital, Sam." she replies.

Sam swallows thickly, "I...I _really_ don't want to--"

"You might have to." Dr. Winsler says, peering at him over her glasses.

"What? Why?!" he cries.

He's panicking. He knows he is and he knows that he really isn't selling the whole 'mentally-healthy-and-happy' person shtick like he's trying to, but his heart is hammering and his breath is quickening and he really, _really, really cannot be in a hospital again--_

"Your improvement has plateaued." she answers, eyeing him carefully, her expression soft, "I fear you might be a danger to yourself."

"A danger myself?" Sam echoes, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, "How so? I'm doing _better_ , and I'm _fine_ , I swear. _I went to a meeting and I have friends that I speak to sometimes and I--"_

"When was the last time you went out with a friend, Sam?" she asks.

He's starting to hate how she says his name. He finds that he hates pretty much everything. Sam balks at her question, but for some reason, he can't find it in him to lie. And anyway, she's always known when he was lying. It would be no use. Might make everything worse.

He looks down, picking the skin on his fingers, "....about three weeks ago."

"And have you gone to a meeting at the VA since that first one?"

"...no." he says quietly.

"And when was the last time you've gone outside for some fresh air or something recreational that didn't involve you coming to therapy?"

"I...don't know."

"And the last time you've eaten?"

"I--"

"The last time you spoken to your mother?"

"Okay, I get it--"

"The last time you seen your sister?"

" _Okay--_ "

"Or James, your childhood friend? Or Alexander? Marcia?"

"Alright!" Sam shouts, scrambling from the chair and wringing his hands in panic. He takes a few steps back, just trying to get _away_ , and he knows that she's taking note of the heavy breathing, the fact that he's shaking in the large grey knit sweater that hangs off of him, " _I get it_. I get it, okay? _I'm a mess. No one knows that better than me_. I'm stuck with myself _every day_. You think I don't know how absolutely  _awful_ I'm doing? You don't need to keep telling me how fucked up I am. I _understand_ , I'm not an idiot." he's aware his voice has risen, and that it's gotten higher and more frantic with the odd mixture of panic, irritation and fear he's feeling, he pauses. "I just," he sobs, surprising even himself with the sudden prickling of tears in his eyes, and god, _he's so tired,_ "I just," he repeats, covering his face with his hands, the sleeves of the sweater are too long, and he feels the moisture from his face dampening the fabric over his hands, "I just want it to _stop._ "

He doesn't really know what he's referring to specifically. Maybe it's the hurricane of annoyingly probing questions ( _'are you okay?', 'how have you been doing lately?', 'have you been eating?', 'are you sure you're okay?'_ ) every time he tries to have a _fucking_ regular _fucking_ casual conversation with _anyone_ he knows. Maybe he means the nightmares. Maybe he means constant exhaustion that clings to him. Maybe he means the fact that he has to keep up with appointments and recovery tips and bullshit advice from everyone he talks to ( _'Keep your head up Sammy, everything will be fine', 'Just smile more, Sam!', 'Hey...don't be so down!'_ ) and all this other nonsense when he can barely remember how to be a _person_. Maybe he means struggling to be _human_ and _social_ and fucking _functional_. Maybe he means the fact that he misses Riley. Maybe he means trying to live up to the promise he made to his dead fiance's mother. Maybe he means the concern he sees on everyone's faces when they see him. Maybe he means the fact that he can't do simple things such as eat or sleep or just... _be_. Maybe he means _breathing_. 

Maybe he means everything. _Life_.

It just...needs to stop.

It shouldn't be this hard just to be _alive_. Just to exist in the world.

"You just want what to stop, Sam?" the older woman says, concern lacing her voice. 

"Everything." Sam breathes, the sound labored and just...sad.

~

He goes home with 4 prescriptions.

Two antidepressants, one anxiety and one sleep medication.

He doesn't fill it for two days.

~

When he _does_ fill the prescription, he slumps back home from the pharmacy and takes the little pill bottles out of the paper bag, throws away the informational papers that read _'Ask your pharmacist about your medication!'_ with a woman beaming brightly on the front--the general cheeriness of the paper annoyed him. _Really_ , who gets that excited about medication?-- and lines them up on the counter.

They're orange, the bottles. An ugly color. It's glaring.

He promised to take them. He knows what happens if he doesn't.

Hospital.

It wasn't a threat. His doctor never threatened him with hospitalization. She cares about him, he can see it plain as day. 

He worries her.

He worries _himself_.

Anyway, the agreement is that he writes down how he feels after each dose, every day. Another way to assure her that he's actually taking them, he guesses. 

It's harder to lie that way.

~

The next morning is grey and cloudy.

Sam sits at the kitchen island, pill bottles lined up neatly in front of him as he looks out of the window.

He likes the weather like this. It's cold, and rainy.

Sam tries not to think about how that could be interpreted as super fucking depressing. 

Anyway, his house is warm, and the coffee maker beeps happily when it's finished, and Sam has no idea if he should even take them with coffee (he figures he probably _shouldn't_ , but fuck it, he's proud of himself for taking them _at all_ , along with the added accomplishments of getting out of bed and making coffee) and he figures he should eat something but--

One step at a goddamn time.

He slowly adds milk and sugar to his coffee, and he knows he's stalling (he spent about ten minutes in front of his cabinet just picking a cup) because he _really, really doesn't want to swallow those pills._

But in the end, he can only put it off for so long, and he finds himself at his kitchen island again, this time with a steamy mug beside him.

Ugh.

Fucking ugly orange pill bottles.

Someone should really talk to whoever is in charge of that. Maybe change them to blue. That would be better. Or green. Pink? Purple. Red? Yellow...

He picks up the first one, feeling the weight of it in his hand and the clatter of the pills rushing to one side or the other as he gently shakes it.

He's being so stupid.

They're just pills.

He opens the first one. They're white, round little things. The label on the bottle reads _'Sam Wilson: Wellbutrin 300mg. One tablet by mouth, once daily'._

Ugh. It has his name on the bottle. It's _branded_ and _belongs_ to him. All the bottles do. Yuck.

He shakes out one round little pill and holds it in his palm. Antidepressant number one. 

Sam clenches his eyes shut, and pops it in, chasing it down with a swig of too-hot coffee.

That wasn't so bad.

Next.

 _'Sam Wilson: Effexor 150mg. One tablet by mouth, once daily'_. A capsule. Poppy red. Antidepressant number two.

Pops it in. More coffee.

Maybe he can do this.

_Maybe._

Next.

' _Sam Wilson: Xanax 1mg. One tablets by mouth. Twice daily. Once at breakfast, once at bedtime._ ' A long white pill. Kind of like the capsule. Not quite.

He takes one.

Pops it in. More coffee.

Hm.

Okay then.

He puts the bottles away. Finishes his coffee.

And waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again I must apologize about how fucking late this is. Just been having a...horrible time lately. My meds are acting up and everything is awful and I can't eat or sleep. So sadly, I pinned my frustrations on Sam this chapter. But have no fear, he IS improving, just...slowly. Like me, I guess. Like A LOT of us, actually.
> 
> Anyway, I will try to update more consistently. It'll also be fun to write about Sam having to deal with the annoying side effects of the meds (like wellbutrin gives you CRAZYYYY dry mouth, man. its awfullll). So expect some humor next chapter to make up for me dragging your feelings through the mud for this entire story. I am truly sorry about that. I can be a debbie downer sometimes (i'm lying. all the time. thats why i'm on meds) and that can come out in my writing, so I'll try to inject some goddamn happiness into this story (without forcing it, of course). Anyway, so sorry about how late this is.
> 
> How about this, if an update is taking too long, come scream at me at 808s-and-d1sco-face.tumblr.com  
> Get my ass in gear.  
> Hope you're all doing well.


	17. Chapter 17

Well, to the drugs' credit, they _are_ working.

It's a bit easier to breathe now, and the general panic of everyday life has dulled, (and _wow_ , Sam never really realized how _anxious_ he was all the time. Now that he isn't he finds it hard to rationalize how he survived like that for so long) and he has a bit more energy, if a little too much.

He feels a bit brighter.

He hopes it's not some weird placebo thing.

Sam doesn't quite get why he was given anti-anxiety meds if the Wellbutrin was going to have him excitable and running on full anyway, but he doesn't complain because for the first time in a very long time, it feels like improvement. And not just because he _knows_ he's improving a little bit, day by day. But because he actually  _feels_ it. And sure, it's the drugs, that _is_ why he feels different, but as he records how he's affected by them each day, he can't help but think they're a good thing.

He still balks at taking them every morning. But he _knows_ he needs them now. He knows they _help_.

And God knows he needs the help.

~

That Thursday morning, he gulps down his breakfast of pills.

His appetite is still something he needs to work on. His doctor wouldn't be happy to know that he's only ingested coffee for the past week, but sometimes the pills make him nauseous, and he can't even think about food much less suffer though preparing it.

Sam hasn't thrown up in a while and he'd rather not break that streak, thanks.

He waits for energy to kick in, sitting at his kitchen island, staring at the stove.

He wonders faintly why he doesn't sit on the couch, but then he remembers it's because he can't stand the tv. He can hardly bear to look at it. Something about it makes him uneasy, even if it's not on. And when it's on it's too _bright_ and too _loud_ and it reminds him too much of battlefields and chaos. No matter what sounds come from the thing, it all sounds like gunfire and explosions to him. The last time he'd tried, he'd almost had a full blown anxiety attack before he managed to turn it off. It didn't stop the bursting images of flashbacks behind his eyes.

Sand.

Bullets.

The occasional missile.

The grit of sand and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Dizzying falls from great heights.

Rapid gunfire.

So yeah, no tv.

He should really just throw the damn thing out. Put a painting in it's place or something. 

Sam blinks, feels the medication kicking in, and decides to do some cleaning.

~

On Thursday night, he goes to the meeting.

He doesn't let himself think about how awkward it will be--seeing as he pretty much disappeared for almost a month--because he knows if he does, he won't go.

And Sam's life is now about him forcing himself to do things he really doesn't want to do, apparently. 

So he goes.

He slips into the room and tries not to be noticed, blending in with all the other bodies drifting in, but the leader sees him and smiles wide with a cheery, "Sam! You made it!"

He stops and he feels his eyes go wide. He struggles for something to say, and it seems like everyone senses his discomfort because then he gets a few calls of _'Hey Sam'_ and _'Look who's back!'_.

He shifts in his large black sweater and stutters a shaky, "Hey."

"Sam!"

The shout comes from the door and he turns in alarm before he registers the voice, then he has an armful of Marcia as the women scolds him.

"Where the hell were you?" she demands into his neck, her voice muffled, "I was worried sick."

Sam hugs her back gently before he quietly says, "Sorry, just...I-uh..."

He has no idea how much to tell her.

It turns out he doesn't have to because she pulls back and says, "It's okay, I get it."

He manages a small smile and she returns it as more members troop in and greet each other. Apparently over the course of the weeks he's been gone, people have made friends, if the fact that people smile, hug and greet each other is anything to go by.

Speaking of new friends, Sam is pulled out of his thoughts when Marcia takes him by the arm and leads him to two seats. They sit and observe the others for a while, before Marcia looks at Sam, "I really meant it when I said I get it, you know. I wasn't just saying that."

"I know." Sam replies, "I _am_ sorry for disappearing though. I just...I was just...not having the best time."

 _'Very articulate, Wilson'_ , Sam thinks, mentally kicking himself.

"Yeah. I do that too." Marcia says, spinning the chair and sitting in it backwards, propping her arms up on the back, "It's just...I've been in groups like this before. And...people have disappeared before and...never came back. If you know what I mean."

"Christ." Sam says, before he realizes that he should probably assure her he was kinda-of-vaguely-maybe-okay, "I'm think I'm okay though."

She nods.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, and _wow,_ it's been a while since he was one the other end of _that_ question.

Marcia looks at him, her eyes wide like she's startled by the inquiry. Sam makes a mental note to ask her that more often. Clearly no one has been.

"I'm..." Marcia starts, her eyes drifting, "I guess."

"I don't really think that's true." Sam says, shifting in his chair and tucking his leg under his other one.

Marcia balks and looks at him, "I...don't know."

" _That's_ an honest answer." he says quietly.

Marcia laughs, and it's a watery, flimsy thing that hangs in the air between them, "Seems like we're both wrecks, huh?"

"I mean," Sam says, flashing her a small smile, "we're both wearing sweatpants and hoodies as _actual_ clothes to _actual_ places and not just something to take the garbage out in, so yeah."

She laughs, and this times it's full and real.

"So _clearly_ we don't care about life." Sam smirks, "But, on the bright side, the whole on-the-verge-of-death look is all the rage these days so at least we have that.", he laughs, and that's how they spend the next few minutes. Laughing hysterically and trying to be quiet about it.

It'a a morbid joke, but it's nice to own some part of the situation enough to be able to laugh about it. And they're right, they do looks like wrecks. Marcia's hair is thrown up into a haphazard and messy bun, Sam has bags under his eyes and they both look like they just rolled out of bed after a rather fitful night's sleep.

It's...it's hilarious.

And by the time the session starts, Marcia's face is red, Sam is out of breath, and they're both just a tiny bit happier than they were before.

~

The meeting ends, more coffee is shared and Sam and Marcia stay attached at the hip.

To be fair, it's not like they're being standoffish, seeing as a lot of other people are doing the same thing. In a room full of traumatized war vets, no one can be surprised that everyone found one person they clicked with and proceeded to stick with them. A bunch of traumatized people trying to mingle as a large group is daunting. Better to stay with the one other person you click with, Sam decides. It makes sense.

For crazy people, anyway. Like them.

And when they finish their coffee and decide to go for a walk around the neighborhood and talk, Sam wonders if this stable mood can last. He feels...okay. And not like, only okay in the moment, but just...okay. Like maybe it could be consistent. Or, rather, that he has the chance to make it consistent.

He tells Marcia this, and then wishes he hadn't, seeing as it makes a no sense and he's being weird.

"Nah, it makes sense." she says, shrugging off his doubt, "It's nice to _not_ be on an emotional roller-coaster."

The night is cool, almost cold, but he finds he doesn't mind.

"And anyway," Marcia says, "being a little weird is to be expected. Though for us, weird might be an understatement."

"Ah," Sam replies, "may I suggest the term 'fucked in the head'?"

" _Perfect_." she laughs, pausing for a bit before she says, "I'm glad we're taking this walk. I can never sleep. Ever since I got back...just. I can't. Don't know why."

"Understandable." Sam says, "I can't stay awake."

"Oh really?" she smirks down at the ground and studies her sneakers, "Wanna trade?"

"Yes, please." Sam replies smartly.

And for that entire walk, it's like they trade secrets. One by one.

"My brain won't stop. I'm exhausted." Marcia says, looking up at the night sky.

"I can't eat." Sam confesses, looking at a red car pass on the road.

"Sometimes I get so panicked and have to move and I feel like if I stop, I'll die." Marcia says, inhaling the cold night air in one deep breath.

"I still want to bury my head under the covers and never come out." Sam sighs.

"I don't think there's anything on earth for me anymore." Marcia huffs.

"Sometimes I think that being here is worse than being on the battlefield." Sam admitted.

"I can't stand needles anymore...I can barely take my hormone injections and it's fucking with...everything." Marcia whispers.

"Most of the time I wish I would have died on the battlefield." Sam says after a moment.

"I feel like I did." Marcia laughs bitterly.

 They talk about everything in one night. They also come to a mutual understanding.

_'I can make sense of you. Even if no one else can.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* two updates in one day????
> 
> Magic!


	18. Chapter 18

It's slow, but he notices.

He walks back into his home after having had coffee with James, and throws his coat on the couch and realizes he's only slept in _twice_ that week. Out of all _seven_ days.

He's been out with either Marcia, Alexander or James every day. He's had coffee, and socialized, and eaten a bit. He went the VA.

Sam stands in his living room and blinks.

~

Carly's cell phone rings and Sam jumps about a foot in the air. The thing lights up and makes some awful ' _ding_ '-ing sound that Sam really should pester her into changing, if he can get around to actually remembering to bug her about it.

He jumps out of his skin because he's not used to the flat, colorful, loud piece of metal Carly happily carries around. One that she's going to pick out for him when they get where they're going. She's made up her mind to drag him to the Samsung store, and he really is _not_ down with this. At all.

He told his sister he was fine with the phone he had, it was small and dull and didn't light up so much, only to have his sister look at him, tell him it's unacceptable and outdated, and then shove him in a sweater and push him in her car. He'd whined the entire way. Loudly. _With flailing and pouting._

Both! 

His whining didn't do jack shit.

Over the years she's probably built up a tolerance, being a big sister _and_ a mother.

Sam has the feeling that the trip is going to end up being a full blown disaster. There are too many people and too many sounds and bright lights and when a child drops a tablet he'd been inspecting in his small hands, Sam jumps and has to suppress a scream. He tenses and can feel the woman next to him staring a hole in the side of his head, and because he's already scared and more than a little annoyed, he turns to look her in the eye. She turns away.

His sister misses the exchange and bounces back to his side, holding out several options, all of them overly tech-ey and trendy, and he picks one without looking at them. He has no idea what the difference is between all of them is anyway, and he trusts Carly to not consider one that will be an obviously bad choice. She takes his hands and leads him over to cases. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to slow his racing heart. The noise is still getting to him, and he feels his sister squeeze his hand, her curly head coming into view as she moves closer and towers over him in that protective way she'd adopted since they were children. She's always been taller than him.

"Sammy?" her voice is quiet, like she's afraid of adding to the noise, "Are you okay? Do you want to go in the car while I buy these? I'm so sorry, I didn't think about--"

"It's fine." Sam says, taking a breath, "Usually it's okay, but when it's a crowd in enclosed spaces, I just--" he looks up at her, and she looks so sad and so _guilty_ that it makes Sam want to kick himself, "I'm okay though," he tries to reassure her, "I have to get used to being around people again, so thanks for this, Cee. Really."

The use of her childhood nickname reassures her a bit, he can tell. He's glad, she shouldn't be worried about him. Sam doesn't want her to be, because she's never withholding with showing how much she adores her little brother, and he doesn't want to cause her any more trouble than he already has. 

The nickname stuck because that's all Sam used to be able to manage when he was a toddler, even with his big sister sitting with him and attempting to teach him her full name. In the end she accepted that she'd be called Cee until Sam was 5 and a half. She didn't mind, their father took to calling her that and eventually the entire family followed suit.

" _You're_ not buying it for me though," Sam grins, picking up a purple case and inspecting it, trying to block out the general hustle and bustle of the store around him, "that's where I draw the line. I got it."

Carly rolls her eyes, and while she still looks worried, she nudges him, "Actually, _mom_ is buying it."

Sam throws his hands up in exasperation as his sister laughs. It feels nice to make her laugh.

"I tried to change her mind, but you know mom. She insisted and then she did the hand-on-her-hip thing and I knew she was serious and that I'd never win!"

Sam winces, "Oh...the hand-on-her-hip thing. Yikes." he sighs dramatically, "I guess I'll have to tolerate this injustice."

Carly snorts, "How will you _ever_ survive?"

"Hey!" Sam laughs, "I just want to pay for things myself, okay? Like, ya know, an _adult_ does?"

"Like Mom would ever let _that_ happen." Carly grumbles, "I had to talk her out of getting me a new SUV last month. She's a menace."

It feels nice, just talking like this.  Sam really has missed his sister.

~

"So," Carly starts, pulling out of the parking space while Sam investigates the box for his new phone, "you coming over for dinner?"

His head snaps up and he looks at her in shock. She acts like she doesn't see him, eyes on the road.

"Uh, do you..." Sam swallows, "do you think that's a good idea?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" she says, sounding scandalized, "The girls want to see you."

Sam fidgets, "I just..." he takes a breath and remembers what he learned in all those VA meetings.

_'No one will know how to help you if you don't tell them what's wrong'._

"I don't want to scare them." he says slowly, ignoring the shocked looks his sister shoots him, "And...I don't think I'm the fun uncle they remember."

Carly gapes like a fish out of water.

Then quickly pulls over, the car harshly swerving into place. Sam yelps.

"Carly, what the hell--"

"Listen to me." Carly starts, and she looks more serious than he's ever seen her as she turns to look at him head-on, eyes blazing, "The Sam that came back from the military is just _'Sam'_ to us. _Don't you get that_? There is no 'Before-The-War Sam' and 'After-The-War Sam'. Not for me, or mom, or James. No one is comparing who you are now to who you were when you left. That's not how love works. We all change, no matter what. Hell, _I'm_ not exactly the same person I was _last week_. We just want you to be _happy_ , Sam. And healthy. And safe. You're beating yourself up because you feel like you left our mother's son in some desert in Afghanistan when that's the farthest thing from the truth. You're _here_. And we don't need you to be some imaginary version of yourself that you think you remember from before you left." she continues, "Mom doesn't care that you jump at sounds or refuse to have your back to a door. Neither do I. It's there, and we will acknowledge it because it would be hurting you if we didn't, but you seem to think that's _all_ we see, and I'm trying to tell you that's not true. _No one_ is thinking like that, and certainly not two ten year old girls who just want to see their uncle."

She takes a breath, "If you don't want to come to dinner, that's fine. But don't let _that_ be the reason." 

Sam looks at her, eyes wide.

"I'd like to come over for dinner." Sam says quietly after a moment, "Yeah."

Carly looks at him, then nods and mumbles a soft, "Okay."

~

"You changed the kitchen around." Sam says when he walks further into the house, following his sister.

"Had it redecorated," she chirps, "Yeah."

"Everything else is the same though." he observes.

"Yep." she says, opening the fridge and frowning in disapproval at the contents, "The girls are with Amy right now, but they'll be back in like...five minutes."

"Amy?" Sam asks, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island and spinning around slowly in it once he realizes it moves.

"Their nanny." Carly says, "She picks them up from school, makes them lunch when they come home...stuff like that."

"Ah." Sam says, spinning his stool faster.

Carly looks up at him and rolls her eyes at the sight of her brother spinning on the stool and looking absolutely amused, "You're such a baby."

"You're the one who bought these." Sam says with fake defensiveness, "What am I supposed to do? _Not_ spin in it? Preposterous."

She snorts and takes the phone off the hook, "We're low on groceries so I guess we're ordering out. Any suggestions?"

Sam chuckles, "Oh wow. Takeout, huh? How special," he teases, "It's almost like...I could have had that at home."

"Oh, shut up." she says, nudging him in the ribs, "You should be honored I'm treating you to this gourmet meal."

Sam laughs, and swats her hands away when she starts trying to flick him on the cheek.

"No, but seriously," she says, "What do you want because if we let the girls choose they'll choose pizza and I can't suffer through any more cheese and tomato sauce. I can't _take_ it."

"Pizza, huh?" Sam smirks, hopping down from the stool.

"So. Much. Pizza." Carly emphasizes, looking absolutely haunted.

Sam laughs and then startles violently when he hears the front door bang open with a high-pitched, "Mommy, Tameeka hit me!"

Another voice--just as high-pitched and indignant--yells, "No I didn't! Teyanna is being a baby!"

Carly lets out a long-suffering sigh, and Sam tenses when he hears the sound of sneakers getting closer. Two small bodies barrel into the kitchen, one voice talking over the other, and Sam only gets a glimpse of afro puffs and frills before he's being squeezed by two pairs of small arms.

"Uncle Sammy!"

"You're here!"

"You missed Tameeka's dance recital she fell in the middle of the ballet part."

"No I didn't! Don't listen to her, Uncle Sammy. She's mean and she lies."

"No I don't, you--"

"Girls!" Carly says firmly, and they turn to look at her, but refuse to let go of him, "How about letting your uncle breathe, hm?"

Sam looks down at them. They barely come up to his elbows, and they just latched themselves to him and started _talking_.

It's like, for them, no time has passed at all. They don't act any different around him and they're never _going_ to, and it's not like the Christmas get-together at his mom's house. These girls won't tiptoe around him or make him feel like he's some broken thing everyone has to handle gently.

It's like they notice nothing different at all.

Kids are funny that way, Sam supposes. They never really tiptoe around anyone. _Especially_ these two. How could he forget that?

Sam laughs, "Nice to see you guys too."

He sees his sister visibly relax out of the corner of his eye as grins down at them, chuckling.

Maybe he can handle this after all.

Sam hugs them as tightly as he's able, seeing as they won't let go of him and it's an awkward angle.

"Now what is this about someone falling during a recital?" Sam asks, laughing lightly.

They both jump to attention and start talking at once.

Sam starts laughing and can't stop.

~

Sam didn't know how tolerant he could be of loud noises and voices until he was aware that it was just two ten year-olds and not a random IED that he's convinced has found him in the middle of Washington. 

As soon as his laughing fit had passed, the two little girls had bickered enough and Carly has placed her hand over her face more times than she can count, the twins had each taken a hand and dragged him off to the living room because, "Mommy, if Uncle Sammy is here then we should watch a movie too." Teyanna explains, like it's proven scientific fact.

And that's how Sam ends up sitting in front of his sister's (frankly, _impressive_ ) entertainment center with a bouncing twin on either side of him, loading his lap with DVD's.

"Let's watch The Incredibles."

"No, let's watch Finding Nemo!"

"We've seen that like a million times! Let's watch--"

And the conversation goes on, Sam is completely lost because he has no idea what half of these movies are, and Carly cuts in with, "Guys, we can just order Home on demand. No need to fight."

"Yay!" Teyanna squeals. Sam chuckles.

"Uncle Sammy?" Tameeka asks, eyes wide as she looks up at him.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Mommy says you can fly...can you?"

"Tameeka!" he hears Carly snap from somewhere behind him, but that doesn't tear the girl's eyes from his. Teyanna is looking on with interest now too.

Sam gives her a small smile, "I used to be able to, yeah."

"You can't anymore?" Teyanna asks, looking concerned, nudging her sister over to plop down closer.

"Nah, kiddo. I can't." he says, and just the confession feels like defeat.

"Why?"

Sam thinks for a second, and decides to just tell the blunt and honest truth, "I don't have my wings anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the light at the end of the tunnel is getting a bit closer.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam was aware he was eating startlingly little, but he didn't know how bad it was until he ended up throwing up into his therapist's trash can.

To be fair, it wasn't his fault. He tried to eat some toast this morning, and he was determined to actually get better in this small area of his life, but apparently he'd stuffed himself and that nauseous feeling came back to bite him in the ass about a half hour later when--in the middle of telling Dr. Winsler about his visit with his sister and the girls--blanched as his stomach turned.

And that's how he's ended up here. With his head in a trash can.

He should really just find one big enough to crawl into. Seriously.

He can't handle two pieces of toast? Seriously? He's a grown man. This is so _stupid_ , and he doesn't try to hide his frustration once he recovers and feels his doctor's hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles like he's a damn five year old.

He doesn't brush her off, though.

God, his mouth tastes _disgusting_.

"Wash up in the bathroom," the older woman orders, looking completely unruffled, "Then come on back, dear."

Fuck. She only calls him 'dear' when she's about to force him to do something he _really_ doesn't want to do.

Sam walks numbly to the small adjoining bathroom, turns on the tap with numb, shaking hands and a fluttering stomach. The water tastes like bile, and he continues rinsing until it doesn't.

Instead it tastes like the sands of Afghanistan. He'd crash landed after Riley-- _Riley_ \--

He feels the harsh grains against his cheek, and he can feel the heat and hear the gunfire, and the explosion. 

Sam clenches his eyes shut and grits his teeth, squeezing the sharp angles of the knob of the tap and feeling the pain shoot up his arm.

_You'renotthereyou'renotthereyou'renotthereyou'renothere--_

"Sam?"

The doctor's voice startles him, but it brings him back.

 _'You're not there. There's no sand. There is no heat. In fact, its cool.'_ Sam thinks to himself frantically, slowly letting go of the knob, _'That's why you wore this heavy sweater today. No explosions, no desert heat. It's cold. It's cold. It's cold. It's cold.'_

He straightens and breathes.

"Coming." he calls, his voice cracking.

He walks back outside where the doctor has placed herself back in her chair, and Sam can see that she's changed the bag for the trash can. He grimaces.

"Sorry about that I-", Sam starts, feeling ashamed and so fucking _pathetic_ \--

"Don't even finish that sentence, dear. It's fine, you know that." she says firmly, "Though, this does confirm what I've been planning to do for a while."

Sam's stomach plummets.

"About submitting your file to Western State Hospital for their inpatient program." she says, looking at him intently.

It feels like a death sentence, and Sam feels his pulse skyrocket. The room is quiet and Sam tries to look for the right words to convey to her how much he really doesn't want this--

"I can't." Sam squeaks, and his face colors in embarrassment at his own voice, "I can't, I can't. I--"

"Sam." she says, "It's for the best. You need this."

"But--", he tries, before an idea strikes him, "You've been urging me to spend time with family and friends. And I have, I've been getting better at that but if I'm locked up in the crazy house then I can't. I'll become a hermit again."

It doesn't work.

"This takes precedent." she says, "Your health comes before your social life in terms of recovery, and I've tried to give you the time you asked for to see if you could recover yourself, but now it's time."

Sam makes a desperate sound, "I'm _okay_. I'm _improving_."

She gives him a bland look, "And how much food did you eat today?"

"Two pieces of toast." Sam says, "And that's-that's a lot...for _me_. And it's more than I've been able to manage before so--"

"Sam." something in her tone stops him, excuses dying on his tongue, "That's not even a fifth of the amount of calories you should be consuming on a day to day basis."

Sam's mouth clamps shut and he wills himself not to cry. His best is never enough.

"This is serious, Sam." she says softly, leaning forward, "I know you feel like you're improving. And you _are_ , but by the time you work your way up to eating  _half_ the calories you need you'll have done such irreversible damage to your body that it won't matter much. You can't see yourself properly, but you're wasting away, Sam. And we're all very worried about you."

Sam looks down and bites his tongue until it hurts. _No no no no no no no no no no no no no he can't go he won't he can't because that would mean he's actually sick but he's fine really really really really_ \--

And then her words register.

" _We_?" he says slowly, looking up.

"I have been in conference with your mother and sister. They have given their permission."

"Permission?" Sam says after a beat, indignation lacing his words, "I'm not a _kid_. This isn't some field trip that my mom has to sign the permission slip for or that my sister has to sign her name to chaperon. I'm an adult and this is ridiculous--"

"Sam."

Sam stops, breathing heavy in panic.

"You're not just hurting yourself," the doctor says slowly, "you're hurting them too. Because they have to watch."

And that's what brings the world crashing to a halt.

"They're very, very worried about you, Sam."

_He never meant to hurt them he never meant to worry them he's a burden and he's making them upset and all they've ever done is help him he's useless useless useless--_

"Sam, are you with me?"

Sam startles and looks at the doctor. She gives him a sad and considering look, "I submitted your file three days ago. You're due to sign in in two days."

He clenches his jaw to avoid saying something awful. He's so fucking _sick_ of people deciding things for him, no matter how worried they are. He wasn't even asked, but now he's going to be ripped out of his home just because other people think it'll be good for him.

"Are you always this calm when you basically force people to go to _jail_?" Sam snaps.

Dr. Winsler looks at him, "Oh come on, Sam. It's hardly jail."

"Well, I'll be monitored at all times, I won't be able to leave even I want to, mealtimes will be scheduled along with the rest of my day, and I won't even be able to have my phone, am I right?" Sam spits, "Now, I've never _been_ to jail, sounds like jail to me."

She raises and eyebrow, "Snapping at me won't change this. We just want you to survive Sam."

"Well maybe I don't want to!" he snaps, and her eyes widen marginally before she writes something on her notepad.

 _Fuck_.

_Just fucking dig yourself into a deeper fucking hole Sam, good job. Good fucking job._

She looks up and folds her hands in her lap, "Orderlies will be at your home at 9 pm on Wednesday to collect you."

Sam balks when he hear the word 'orderlies'.

"I suggest you pack some bags, but if you don't then they'll grab the essentials for you. Then they'll escort you there."

"How is this _legal_?" Sam says desperately, "This can't be legal. This has to be in violation of... _something_."

"I got it approved in court, Sam. Involuntary emergency admission." she says, "Completely legal." 

Sam glares at her.

The doctor looks back at him coolly, "I will still be your therapist--"

"Awesome." Sam deadpans.

"--but I'll be coming to you, instead you travelling to see me."

Sam folds his arms and bites his tongue, clenching his eyes shut.

"This is for the best, Sam."

~

Sam gets home and feels like a prisoner who has 48 hours to gather what he can before he's carted off and never heard from again.

Probably because he is.

He's not even angry anymore, he's just...afraid. And feeling very alone. And he doesn't want to go. He feels like he's finally settled in at least somewhat in the little crappy routine he's set for himself, and he doesn't like the fact that other's have the power to make these decisions for him. 

Crazy or not, Sam would like to be able to make his own choices. Is that too much to ask? He was _improving_. He was getting used to being in this house and seeing people and talking regularly and not sleeping so much but now he's going to be uprooted again and he doesn't know if he can take it.

He picks up his phone to make his rounds and call his very short list of friends to tell them he's going to be locked up in the crazy house for God-knows how long, but when he picks up his new smartphone and wakes up the screen, the news headline catches his eye.

They've found Captain America in the ice.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Sam only knew the basics about Captain America.

His name was Steve Rogers, he was a sickly, small guy before he was transformed (though very noble and courageous), and he was born on July 4th (Sam rolled his eyes at this because wow, really?).

He knew about The Howling Commandos. He knew a bit about Bucky Barnes.

He knew because when he was little, his dad told him.  Needless to say his dad skimmed over Captain America and Bucky Barnes and told Sam mostly about Gabe Jones, for _obvious_ reasons. If he was going to tell his little Sammy about anyone, it wasn't going to be the two white guys that society worshiped, it was going to be the black guy, definitely. Someone--other than him--that Sam could look up to and see as a hero.

His dad told him about how Gabe Jones, a black man, learned French and German and how he helped destroy a HYDRA base as soon as he was free from their capture. About how he helped defeat the Red Skull. How he stormed countless HYDRA bases and helped the world. How he saved it, one brave act at a time.

Sam loved those stories. He loved the fact that his hero looked like him and one day, could even _be_ him. That one day he could be just like Gabe Jones and _help_ people. Save the world.

So much for _that_.

So needless to say, Sam doesn't really know what to think when he finds out that Steve Rogers--Captain America, he corrects himself--has been found. _Alive_ , even.

What does this mean? What'll they do to the poor guy?

Sam can only imagine the culture shock and the possible unpleasant experiments he could be subject to.

Yikes.

It's only then that Sam puts down his phone and braves turning on the television. It's big, and _colorful_ and _loud_ and it scares him half to death when it powers on and _noise_  just starts filling the room, but he manages to breathe and stay calm enough to lower the sound and dim the screen's brightness enough that his heart stops trying to escape his chest and his breathing comes easier.

He waits for his shaking to die down (it takes embarrassingly long, and Sam tries not to think too hard on that), and he flips through channels. Every news station is reporting about Captain America--and Sam learns that he'd actually been found in the ice about a month ago, and he shrugs because he knows better than anyone(having been in the military and all) that the news is _always_ told to the civilian population _later_ than when it _actually_ happens, if they're told at all--and every other channel is playing one of the million documentaries made about the man.

Sam deems the television safe, and leaves it on the news as he flops around his home to pack his things. He tries to listen to the television to distract from the crushing fear, anger and sadness he's feeling because soon he'll be snatched away from this place and placed in come cold and uncaring facility.

So he listens.

Which means he also hears the breaking news that Steve Rogers has run into Times Square looking confused as all hell--

and he _does_.

The guy looks _terrified_. The footage is only about 30 seconds long, but it's enough. 

He's blond, Sam notices, and fucking _huge_ , but he looks around at the bright flashing billboards for Pepsi and Mamma Mia (and _really_ , will NYC _ever_ be free of that musical? It's been on Broadway for _ages please for the sake of every New Yorker ever please just let it die_...) and he just looks confused and lost and more than a bit frightened. Sam can imagine, everything bright and flashing and so many people around...

He would have had a panic attack. No question.

But Rogers...doesn't. He has this odd look of sad resignation, and the footage shows a black man in a long leather coat approaching him, and then it cuts.

The world is in a tizzy.

Sam doesn't quite know what to feel about all of it.

~

He packs and glimpses at the dim television, and when he's finished, he curls himself into a pathetic ball of human on his couch and watches the documentaries.

It must be weird, having all these people know about your childhood and family. Because that's what every documentary is. They know every sickness, every minor job he had (since he was sickly he couldn't handle much), every fight he got into. They tell the story of Captain America and Bucky Barnes, best friends from beginning to end. Beginning from how Barnes defended Rogers from bullies and tried to hook him up with girls and how they were inseparable, and ending when Barnes falls from a train.

Sam blinks. That's...really sad.

They tell the story of Peggy Carter, and how she was one of Captain America's closest confidants and friends. How Howard Stark turned him from the man he was to the icon he'd become. The scientist who created the serum. The Howling Commandos (and of course, Sam isn't surprised when they completely gloss of Gabe Jones' involvement because you know, good old fashion racism always prevails) and Red Skull. HYDRA.

Rogers crashing the plane into the ice.

Sam turns off the television. It feels--oddly enough--like he's intruding on this man's life. Roger's never gave anyone permission to know every little think about him, and Sam immediately feels bad for watching the television program at all.

He tries not to panic ( _because oh god how could he do that how would he feel if someone knew everything bout him Sam is awful awful awful..._ ), and instead crawls his sorry ass into bed.

It's only about 4 pm, but when has the time ever stopped him from gladly succumbing to unconsciousness?

Never.

~

Sam wakes up at 2 am, and kicks himself for sleeping so early because now he's up at the crack of fucking dawn--

 _Is_ it dawn? When is dawn, anyway? Sam has no idea.

The point is, it's early. Only dogs and babies are up at this hour.

And apparently psychos, like him.

He has the crazy thought that maybe he could go for a run, then he dismisses it. He'd probably die or something. 

And when he remembers that this is his last day in his home, of freedom, the sick feeling in his stomach sets in and he can't shake it. God, everything is awful. He's so far gone and pathetic that he can't even help himself, so he has to be thrown in a place where people are only helping him only because it's their goddamn _job_. 

How sad is that? 

Sam gets out of bed, is plagued by these thoughts, and ends up laying on his couch trying to stave off a headache. 

He has to leave at 9 pm tonight, and every second feels like the ticking of a bomb counting down to explode and kill him.

Sam is aware he's being a _touch_ dramatic, but he doesn't care.

~

He doesn't remember when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up it's 3pm and his mouth is simultaneously dry and _horrid tasting_ \--

he's also forgotten to take his meds, call everyone to tell them he's being carted off, and is just generally out of it and mildly annoyed as one usually is when unexpectedly thrown into sleep.

He sits up, squinting around the sun soaked living room, and sighs. Now he's going to have this faint blanket of exhaustion over him for the rest of the day.

That always happens when he sleeps too much in a short span of time.

And that's not even including the headache he can feel building behind is eyes. Still.

Awesome.

He stands, and the room shifts for a moment as he sways on his feet, room swimming before his eyes. Sam clenches his eyes shut and tries to stay balanced, and is pathetically proud of himself when he only stumbles once when he moves toward the kitchen for some water.

It helps, and he swallows down his meds and some advil.

He's getting far too acquainted with pills.

Sam hates it.

He makes his calls, and he tries to keep them short, save for Marcia  _("Yeah, of course Marcia, you can visit me every weekend, I actually dread what you'd do if they tried to tell you you couldn't. But seriously, I'll be depressed as hell if I end up missing you, so you better be here.")._ She's concerned and upset (and Sam is thrilled that _someone_ shares his outrage at the situation, _seriously_ ) but she makes him laugh, and he feels like he probably won't die of anguish after all.

Dramatic, he knows. But fuck it. 

He considers calling his mom and Carly, but he wouldn't know what to say because deep down, he knows they're right. He's a mess. And they are only trying to help and keep him _alive_.

He's not too sure how he feels about it. Being alive.

It's _exhausting_ , and Sam really doesn't know how much will he has left in him. 

But then again, that's probably why they're carting him off in the first place.

~

Sam looks at the clock.

8:50 pm.

He's sitting on his couch, bags packed and stomach in knots. He might throw up. Again. Which is kind of what got him in this mess in the first place. 

His living room is dark, the only light being the orange glow the streetlamp outside shines through a window, and Sam feels completely alone. 

He also kind of feels like a kid about to be picked up and carted off to some shitty camp for the summer (and Sam should know, he's been there), and if he bit his lip any harder it would be bleeding.

He doesn't want to do this.

He has six minutes. He could run away. He could move. He could get to an airport and disappear. He could take his things and be gone.

Sam's tired though, and really doesn't even want to be _awake_ , much less get up and spur some half-assed plan into motion. 

He's sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Three minutes.

Sam looks at his phone. He didn't want it when Carly dragged him to the store to get it, but now that he knows it'll be taken away from him, he finds himself gripping it tighter to his chest, bringing his knees up and resting his forehead on them.

_exhausedsicktiredwornoutsicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick_

The knock at the door doesn't rouse him.

Neither does the third, the fourth. The calls of an unfamiliar voice on the other side. He thinks they're saying his name. He's not sure. It sounds like he's hearing everything through a tunnel. The world has taken on the sound of a slow ringing in his ears.

_sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick_

He can't move.

He feels detached from his body, yet at the same time too in tune to every feeling within it. He can feel his heart beating too clearly, he can hear his breath, he can feel the couch up against his back he can feel his fingers tingling and every one of his cells moving and _moving and moving and moving--_

He isn't well.

 _Unwell_.

Unwell.

_unwellunwellunwellunwellunwellunwellsicksicksicksicksicksick_

_He isn't well_ and he doesn't hear the door opening, can hardly hear the voice of the kind woman dressed in some type of uniform he can't make out talking to him softly. He can hardly see someone picking up his bags.

All he can feel is his rapid breathing.

Then Sam sees black.

The comforting black that comes with the unconsciousness that he has grown so attached to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. 20 chapters. I can't believe you guys have stuck with me this long. I'm really honored, guys. I cherish every comment, bookmark and kudos. This story is hard to write, but I am so so so SO glad that you all like it. Thanks so much! 
> 
> Onward!


	21. Chapter 21

Sam doesn't need to open his eyes to know that he's in a car, but he considers continuing faking unconsciousness anyway, because he really doesn't feel like talking to anyone. Or accepting what's happening.

He's _big_ fan of denial.

But after awhile curiosity wins out, and he opens his eyes and immediately looks out of the window. It's raining.

"Mr. Wilson?"

Sam turns toward the female voice coming from the front seat, and is faced with a smiling Asian woman, her black hair pulled into a bun. He blinks at her. She must have been the woman talking to him when he was having his...what does he even _call_ it? A breakdown? An episode?

"Glad to see you awake." she says, pulling him from his thoughts, "You had us worried."

I apparently have a lot of people worried, Sam thinks to himself.

There is a man in white driving the car, and Sam can't see his face, but something is terrifying about how the man doesn't even acknowledge them or their conversation. Is the hospital filled with people like _this_? People in white who are completely despondent and apathetic to what's going on around them? _To other people?_

His stomach ties itself in intricate knots.

"I'm okay." Sam lies. But she just smiles and chirps, "Good! I'm Dr. Lee, by the way. But I urge all of my patients to call me by my first name, Sojung. Just so you know. No need to be so formal." she finishes with a wink.

"Oh, okay." he answers, before he pauses nervously and takes a breath, "How long until we're...there?"

"Not too long, actually." the doctor says, turning around in the passenger's seat to smile at him, "It's a very relaxed place. You'll like it. Everyone is afraid at first. But trust me, you'll get comfortable in no time, and if you have any problems my office isn't too far from the room that you've been assigned."

"Oh. Okay.", Sam says haltingly, not knowing what to do with that information, "Thanks." 

She smiles and turns around, and the car is silent again. 

Sam...doesn't know how he feels. Or if he feels anything at all. He's tired, and nauseous, but that's all he can identify in terms of his physical, mental and emotional state. 

He hates this. EIther he's despondent or hysterical and he can rarely find the balance. Even when he does, he can't seem to keep it for long.

Sam just wants to sleep for days.

A nice coma. Is that too much to ask for?

The raindrops zigzag down the window and his eyes watch them trail down and out of sight.

~

The place looks exactly how he thought it would from the outside, Sam thinks as he's lead out of the car, the orderly holding an umbrella over him and carrying his bag.

Sam feels bad for being wary of the man when the orderly gives him a warm smile and the doctor informs him that he's deaf.

Sam smiles back warmly, and tries not to think his brain into dizzying circles as he's led into the facility. 

As soon as he enters he shivers. It's exactly as white, sterile and _cold_ as he expected, and this is only the _lobby_. He can only _imagine_ the actual ward. He also feels like a child as he's signed in and led by Sojung to the elevators (that only seem to be activated by key card--that Sam is sure only the staff have access to--because you know, Sam needed _further_ reminder that this place is basically a prison), and his anxiety spikes as he's encased in chrome walls and getting closer to where he'll have to be _quarantined_ and _watched_ and _tested_ like a fucking _lab rat_ \--

\--It's green.

That's the first thing Sam registers about the ward. The walls are _green_. A light green, too. Like...springtime. Or something.

Not what he was expecting, but he's still surprised when he's faced with a common room that looks more like an average living room than a cold and sterile mental ward for broken souls. Multiple televisions, multicolored couches...

He...doesn't quite know what to think.

This _is_ a hospital, right?

"Not what you were expecting, I take it?", the doctor smiles, pulling Sam out of his shocked headspace, "Everyone always has that look on their face." 

"Well," he starts, fidgeting, "it looks a lot...different from the outside. And the lobby." 

"Indeed it does.", she laughs, winking mischievously, "But we want to try and fool everyone into thinking we're professionals, don't we? And not a bunch of doctors who play video games with their patients for most of the day." 

Sam blinks, taking in the woman's smirk before he relaxes a bit, a small laugh escaping him.

"Don't worry.", the woman says, "We'll get you good as new." 

And for some reason, Sam believes her. 

She leads him to a medical room, pointing out her office down the hall as she hands Sam over to the physician with a smile and a "Come see me after this, alright? We'll get you set up in your room. Remember," she points, "That room down the hall. My office." 

Sam nods and manages a smile, before he finds himself being greeted rather warmly, weighed, asked a startling (and frankly, confusing) amount of questions before being given a hospital bracelet and finding his way to Dr. Lee's office.

"Ah, there you are.", she grins, picking up her clipboard and walking past him and out the door, "Come on, I'll show you your room. We'll have to pick up some things first."

Sam nods, and silently follows, feeling rather small and still incredibly unsure.

This place is more comfortable than he'd imagined, and a lot more casual, but he still doesn't _want_ to be there. He doesn't _want_ to be monitored or forced to _talk_ and _eat_ and _participate_. He wants to be left alone. That's all. 

And what's more, he's slightly annoyed that all the other room doors seem to be closed, hindering him from getting any insight into what his own room will look like.

Dr. Lee leads him through some hallways (painted different colors and lined with the occasional plush armchair or two) and abruptly stops in front of a door, opens it, and pulls out a blanket set, handing it to Sam and taking off again.

He quickly scrambles to keep up, holding the blankets and looking (and feeling) extremely lost before he's handed a small bag of toiletries from another closet, and sweaters from another.

His head is spinning.

"And _this_ ," she says happily, opening a door and leading him inside, "is _your_ room." 

Sam stands by the door, frozen. He has no idea _why_ , it's not like he can _run_ , but it's only when she turns around kindly says, "Come on. It's okay." that he actually is able to move.

It's...nice.

Light blue walls, a bed that looks like it's actually _meant_ for sleeping, a night table, lamp (wireless, he notices, so he guesses he can't strangle himself to death should he feel the urge), a closet and a window (barred, of course.).

"And I'm guessing this isn't what you expected either.", she smiles, taking in the look on his face, "This is a very relaxed place mister Wilson. You'll be right at home, I promise."

He nods and steps further in the room, seeing that his bag has already been placed inside.

"I'll leave you to get set up." she says, "The others are at group therapy, but they should be done soon, and you'll get to meet them at dinner."

She gives him one last smile and a "You'll be okay, I _promise_." and then she's gone. 

He's not so sure.

He doesn't want to meet anyone. He doesn't want to go to dinner. He wants to sleep. 

The last thing he's up for is socialization.

People asking him why he's there and what happened to him.

Sam has had to repeat the same things too often since he was discharged. He's getting annoyed and really doesn't want to have to repeat himself three million _more_ times to the people he barely knows. 

He also doesn't want to hear their stories. His own issues are enough of a burden, and though it makes him feel like a huge asshole, he really isn't eager to hear about the misfortunes of others on top of that.

He's filled his angst quota for at _least_ the next twenty years, thanks very much. 

Sam sighs and puts the blankets on the bed, spreading them out and laying down, curled up on his side. 

Though this place is more pleasant he's having flashbacks to his time in the hospital right after Riley--

\--right after he was discharged. He'd done the same thing. 

Curled on his side and stared at the wall. 

It's like after all this time, he's right back where he started. 

He falls asleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up 2 months late with starbucks*
> 
>  
> 
> Hey guys, sorry it's been so long! This will be updating regularly again. Sorry for the wait!  
> Just a short chapter to get back in the swing of things.


	22. Chapter 22

Sam is about to either scream or tear his entire face off when the knock for dinner wakes him up. 

Initially he ignores it and closes his eyes again, foolishly hoping they'll get the hint, but the knocks persist until the door opens and an orderly he's never seen before walks in. Sam rolls his eyes, closes them and doesn't move.

"Listen," the orderly says, and Sam opens his eyes, taking in the man's regretful smile, "I get it. Being told what to do is fucking garbage. I get it, I do. But we're all here to help each other, and even if you don't want to go to dinner, it would help me tons if _you_ would escort _me_ to the cafeteria. Whaddya say?"

Sam knows what he's doing. Asking him for help that's conveniently what he needs Sam to do and exactly what Sam _doesn't_ want to do. Trick him into helping himself by thinking he's helping out this orderly by going to the cafeteria.

Sam knows exactly what this is, he knows exactly what this is meant to do...and he does it.

Sam huffs, rubs his eyes and gets out of the bed, looking at the kind orderly who smiles softly at him and follows him down several hallways (and Sam is so fucking tired he doesn't even want to be alive right now, much less walking down a bunch of hallways to be forced to socialize with people) and into a small dining area.

It's hardly a cafeteria, it just looks like a kitchen. A big kitchen. With several round tables and chairs off to a dining area to the side.

It's also decorated somewhat like his grandmother's kitchen.

Very...floral. Too casual for a hospital.

Is this place even a hospital? This entire room looks like he's arrived at an old woman's house for tea.

"Not what you expected?"

Sam shrugs. He's not in the best mood and he's sick of people saying that to him.

Another entrance to the dining area opens, and that's when Sam gets to see the people he'll be attending therapy with, sharing the common room with, well, basically, _living_ with. 

They troop in, taking in Sam standing at an orderly's side and looking utterly miserable, but Sam avoids their eyes because he doesn't want to have to introduce himself. He doesn't want conversation.

He wants to be unconscious.

"You look tired as hell." a pale redhead says, smirking at Sam and sitting at one of the tables, turning around in her chair and winking at him.

Well, that's an ice breaker. 

"That's because I am." he says blandly. 

"Welcome to my life." another patient says. He's Latino and actually looks just as tired as Sam. 

"Good have someone to relate to." Sam deadpans, and the man smiles. 

"I like this guy already." he says, nudging the woman next to him. She turns from the conversation she's having with someone else and looks at him sharply, "Why are you digging you fingers into my ribs?" 

"Wanted to get your attention." he says, rolling his eyes, "The new guy has that snarky humor that Eric had. Remember?" 

Realization dawns on her face, and Sam looks on, completely disinterested as they talk. 

"C'mon." the redhead says, waving him over, "Sit down with me. I'm not gonna talk your ear off, I promise." 

The space is big, but Same notices that the patients all stick to only two tables, opting to squeeze in together than eat alone. 

Hm. 

Sam looks at the orderly one last time (his name tag says 'Michaels') and receives an encouraging smile before he moves to sit next to the red haired woman.

"So what's you name?" she asks, eyes bright with interest. 

Ugh. Here it goes, the introductions. Sam kind of would rather put his head through a wall. 

"Sam." he says, voice dead, "My name is Sam." 

"Well hiya, Sam!" she chirps, "I'm Laci!" 

"Hello." he answers, taking a quick glance around the table he sits at. He didn't expect this place to be so...diverse. 

"I'm in here because I can't keep down even the smallest pea." she says, smiling self deprecatingly.

"She also hates the smell of ketchup." another patient says, a young woman with curly black hair and dark brown skin. Sam looks at her. She grins at him. 

"Uh, because it's gross." Laci says, looking seriously troubled. 

"Ketchup is a gift, Laci, okay?" a blond man says, balling up a napkin and throwing it at her.

"A gift from the devil, maybe." she tells him, throwing it back at him. 

"Whatever," the blond man says, "I'm Skylar. We all have foods that we'd rather die than eat. Part of the disease." he smiles wryly, "Mine is cheese." 

Wow. Everyone here is very...open. Weirdly honest.

Which is kind of a blessing because Sam is pretty much at the end of his rope and is pretty much too tired to lie or sugarcoat anything. Fuck. They're all here for some fucked up reason, why lie?

"Mine are apples." the curly haired girl says, "I can't even _look_ at them. I'm Tara, by the way." 

"What's yours?" Laci asks, trying to engage him in the conversation.

"Everything." Sam deadpans. 

He decided he was going to honest, after all. 

"Yeah I get that." Tara says, leaning back in her chair, "But Mallory will be coming around to make sure you've eaten all your food. Then come the mouth checks and then dessert." 

"Mouth checks?" Sam asks. 

"To make sure you aren't hiding anything in your mouth so you can spit it out later." 

"Oh. Wow." 

"Yep." she grins, shrugging, "Welcome to our little club of fucked up 'rexies and pukers.." 

Sam snorts, rubbing his eyes again, "I'm honored." 

"Aw, yay!" Laci cheers as staff come around and place food in front of them. 

This is where Sam actually gets concerned. It's not a lot, but it _looks_ like a lot. It's not anything overwhelming (unless you think mashed potatoes and peas are overwhelming.)  but for some reason it looks like something that's out to kill him.

"We're the first batch in the next cycle of the program." Skylar says, "Soon we'll be able to choose our own food, and be unsupervised." 

"And how long will that take?" Sam asks dully, pushing around a clump of mashed potatoes and trying not to look as panicked as he feels. 

Tara shrugs, "Depends on how quickly we progress. Individually and as a group." 

Wonderful. 

"Mr. Wilson?" 

Sam, already being on edge, nearly jumps a foot in the air at the voice behind him. He tenses and turns to see an older woman, the corner of her eyes crinkling as she smiles at him. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, dear." she chuckles, and Sam relaxes, taking her gray hair tucked into a bun and her maroon sweater, "I just wanted to make sure I introduced myself to you. I'm Mallory." 

"Hello. Nice to meet you." Sam says, managing a small smile. 

"It'll be hard at first." she tells him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, "But I expect all that food to be gone, alright?" 

Sam sighs and nods, turning back to his plate. 

It really isn't a lot. Barely one serving. 

"Hey," Laci says, smiling and nudging him, "It'll be fine. We're here to encourage each other."

"Yep." Tara smirks, "And to harass each other until we terrors are unleashed upon the world again." 

Sam takes a breath, gathers his resolve, and eats. He doesn't taste it at all, it's like his brain has gone offline and his body is just robotically repeating an action. It's like he's eating dust.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it...

About halfway through he starts feeling sick. 

"Are you nauseous?" Skylar asks, looking at him in concern, "Shit. I had that reaction too, like a week ago." 

"Sam, if you wish you can stop now." Mallory says, appearing at his side and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, "I will make an exception for your first day, seeing as you're still adjusting." 

"Can I go back to my room?" Sam asks, taking a shaky breath.

The older woman gives him a considering look before she nods. 

Sam waves a tired goodbye to his table-mates and follows an orderly back to his room, laying down and curling on his side as soon as the door clicks shut.

He's asleep in about two minutes. 

The next morning, however, is better. Kinda.

Granted, Sam thinks he could use about 40 years of more sleep, but at this point he knows it's the depression talking and not his body needing to rest. He wakes up to a knock on his door, and blinks awake as an orderly steps in. Before he can, however, Laci, Tara and Skylar come out of nowhere and push past him, Laci chirping a happy "good morning!" and Tara telling her to "keep it down, Laci! Not everyone is as chipper as you are in the morning, or...ever" and Skylar rolls his eye at them both and takes Sam's hand, hauling him up like they've always come to collect him first thing in the morning. 

He kind of feels like he's being kidnapped. 

Laci bounces in front of them, looking like the happiest person in the world, and Tara and Skylar are on either side of him, dragging him to the kitchen. Sam hasn't even had a chance to say anything. 

These three swooped in fast.

But he's grateful as hell because it's nice to have friends so quickly. He didn't anticipate that at all. 

~

"So what did you do before you were thrown in the slammer with all of us?" Skylar asks, poking at his own breakfast as the dining hall fills up with more patients trailing in sleepy-eyed and in their pajamas.

Sam tries not to think about the stomachache he knows he'll have to suffer through after breakfast. He shifts in his seat and stares at his plate, wary. Eggs. Fruit. Toast.

Simple.

Far too much.

"Military." He says, a bit distracted.

"Shit, really?" Laci says, eyes widening, "Did you get to fly a fighter jet or--"

"Laci let him breathe. Jesus." Tara says around some toast.

Laci sticks her tongue out at the young woman, and Tara throws at bit of sliced apple at her in retaliation.  

"I was in the air force." Sam says, looking at the pair in mild amusement. 

"How long?" Skylar asks, poking at his eggs and looking at Sam in interest.

"Two tours."

"Then you decided it was time to leave?"

"No, then my fiance was blown apart right in front of me and ended up scattered and in charred peices on the battlefield. I had a breakdown and was discharged."

The table goes deadly quiet. 

He isn't sure why he said it like that. Why he used that phrasing.

He's tired of thinking so hard about what he says in order to keep people comfortable, though. Sick of sugarcoating everything in an effort to make it seem not that bad. Because _shit_ , it's _bad_ , and Sam is doing _horribly_ , overall, and if he ever wants to get out of this place he'll have to fucking admit it.

He's tired of everything, really. 

And anyway, that's what happened, isn't it? 

He's just being honest. Well, in addition to throwing out his verbal filter and saying 'fuck it'.

"Shit." Tara says after a long moment, breaking the shocked silence, "That fucking sucks."

"Tara!" Skylar says frantically, glancing at Sam in apology.

"What? It does." She says.

Sam can't help it. He gives into the humorless smile that spreads across his face. 

She _is_ right.

It _does_.

"No, it does. It really fucking sucks."

In the societal norms of exchanging shitty stories, Sam learns that Laci was an artist who almost dropped dead at an art show, Tara is an overstressed college student that is here due to a failed suicide attempt and Skylar is a preschool teacher who admitted himself so his students wouldn't have to watch him waste away.

They all have one thing in common though, and it's that they're all basically on the edge of death.

This suspicion is confirmed when Sam attends the first group therapy meeting. It's not long, but it's twice a day, and Sam tries to keep his introduction as short as possible. He says only a bit about being a soldier, then he fucks off and sits his ass right back down.

After that is time in the common room interspersed with timed meds and doctor weightings. 

Sam is too tired to fight or argue. Or even roll his eyes. He just does as he's told, sticks with his small group of companions, takes his meds and tries not to scream.

About three weeks in, Tony Stark announces he's Iron Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know I screwed up the movie timeline. Cap happened after Iron Man, but I'm an idiot and put cap before mentioning anything about stark so.
> 
> Sorry. The timeline is gonna be a bit fucked in terms of little mcu details I'm adding in while Sam is in the hospital. Like Thor coming down and all that.


End file.
